


The Heart of Darkness

by Tehri



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Crusader!Thorin, Darkest Dungeon!AU, Eldritch Abominations, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional dependence, Highwayman!Nori, Hope vs. Despair, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Man-At-Arms!Dwalin, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mostly despair, Plague doctor!Bilbo, Religious Content, Vestal!Dís
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-08-31 01:40:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8558251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tehri/pseuds/Tehri
Summary: A young man tasked with reclaiming his family's estate and clearing the family name hires Thorin, a crusader of the Light, to help him fight the abominations that roam the lands about the estate. Thorin finds himself thrown into a world of horrors that threaten to break him and all others who attempt to face them. He is joined by Nori, a highwayman by trade, as well as his little sister Dís, a vestal and sister of the Light, and his cousin Dwalin, a veteran of many wars - and Bilbo, the plague doctor who slowly but surely worms his way into Thorin's heart, taking the place that previously only had room for his faith. Surely if he does not travel alone, there is nothing to fear...





	1. The Match Is Struck

It had been many long years since the Light last called upon one of its champions. Some of them wandered the lands, offering their services where they might, and some settled in distant towns or cities to become holy men rather than warriors. Thorin had spent nearly eight years on the road; he trusted that the Light would guide him and give him purpose. The little town he’d finally made it to was quiet, aside from bands of brigands occasionally harassing the locals, and he realised quickly that he would not find a new quest there. But for a crusader to be hired as a lowly mercenary felt shaming; having to travel into dangerous places and fight to earn one’s keep, to earn only a handful of coins, made Thorin feel as though every evening-prayer was in vain. Only his rumbling stomach and the freezing cold compelled him to accept when a stranger approached him with the intention of asking for his aid in the abbey one evening.

“My ancestor had an estate further up north,” the stranger told him. “He was obsessed with the occult, and unleashed some unspeakable horror upon his lands. I have been tasked with cleansing the land and reclaiming it for my family, but I cannot do it alone.”

“You want me to aid you?” Thorin asked him, raising a questioning eyebrow at the man. “Would you not sooner find mercenaries to do your dirty work?”

“I know not what awaits me,” the man answered. “Only that I would feel safer knowing that I have the aid and protection of the Light.”

“Have you found no others to help you?”

“Only one other, one by the name of Nori. He used to travel with the brigands that run rampant in the lands around the estate, and wishes to redeem himself by offering his knowledge of their operations.”

He’d wanted to say no, to send the man away from the abbey and ask him to never return. But a new goal was tempting, and he had precious little coin to spare anymore – not even enough for a single meal. Though reluctant, he accepted. Besides, what was a crusader without a holy war to fight? The Light would see him through to the very end.

 

* * *

 

 

Nori, a highwayman by trade and a born trickster, proved an able comrade. Though suspicious at first of the heathen he found himself forced to work with, Thorin soon decided that the man must have truly decided to seek redemption for his past crimes. As the carriage they travelled with was forced off the road near the estate, Nori was the one to pull both Thorin and their employer from the wreckage and urge them to follow him. Though he was none too gentle about it, the thief seemed to care for their safety.

“We’ll need to move quickly,” he told them in an urgent tone. “They’ll come down the hill to search for us soon enough and we’ll have to get far from the carriage before that happens.” As soon as he was assured that they were both unharmed, he led them towards a narrow path that was almost invisible among the undergrowth. “It might be guarded, but it’ll be a better bet than us standing up against all of them. Not many who’ll accept guard-duty over an ambush – most would want to be where the action is.”

“You know this, do you?” Thorin asked sceptically, ducking to avoid hitting his head on a low branch as he followed the thief. “How recently did you leave them, I wonder?”

“Some years back,” Nori admitted. “But they’ve not changed their ways since they first took control of the road, I’d wager. If it’s not broken, they won’t fix it.”

“We’ll follow your path,” their employer stated firmly. “Whether brigands have the run of these lands or not, we must get to the hamlet. It should be just ahead.”

“It is,” Nori confirmed. “Come, stay close. Let us hope there are no more unfortunate accidents.”

“Unfortunate accidents,” Thorin snorted derisively. “Start on your road to redemption by not sweeping an ambush under the rug.”

“The terminology sticks, preacher,” Nori stated as he shot Thorin a smirk. “Either way, try not to wander off when it becomes too straining to travel with a heathen like myself, eh? Plenty of natural traps about, and you’d never make it to the hamlet on your own.”

As much as the highwayman’s words offended him, Thorin had to admit that Nori might have been right. Brigands he’d thought he’d be able to handle on his own; the ones they faced on the small path were stronger than the few who had lurked near where he used to live. Seasoned veterans in their own right, the brigands ensured neither crusader nor highwayman escaped unscathed. Their employer had come prepared, thankfully, and was able to tend to their wounds once Nori allowed them to stop and rest for a moment.

“Always with the whips,” Nori stated morosely when the few bleeding gashes he’d received were bandaged. “They ruin even the best of coats.”

“At least you weren’t shot at close range,” Thorin grumbled, wincing as his employer finally managed to pry out the bullet that had lodged in his arm. “If only I’d been faster…”

“You were focused on the fusilier,” the employer told him as he bandaged the wound. “How would you have had the time to dodge?”

“It happens,” Nori agreed. “Don’t you worry about it, preacher, so long as the bullets only strike your arm.”

“You will both be paid handsomely for your skill and bravery,” the employer stated, grasping Thorin’s hand and pulling him to his feet again. “I shall ensure that neither of you are left wanting.”

“Have you an inkling of what the hamlet is like?” Thorin asked him once they set off again. “You’ve never been there before, I believe.”

“No, I have not.” The employer frowned, and not for the first time did the crusader notice just how young he seemed. He seemed almost alien in these lands. “I know little of my ancestor – he is not a welcome subject of conversation in my family, likely because of his obsessions. We never visited the mansion or the estate.”

The highwayman and the crusader exchanged a glance; neither were entirely satisfied with the answer they had been given.

 

* * *

 

 

The hamlet was as decrepit as expected, if one were to judge by the condition of the lands about it; hardly anyone lived there anymore, and the houses had fallen into disrepair. The few people who were there eyed them suspiciously, aside from the man who met them near the little square. Thorin took an instant dislike to him and it seemed Nori did as well, if his stiff posture and twitching fingers were any indication. The man looked aged, though he must have been closer to Thorin’s age than to the grave; his eyes never seemed to settle on one spot, always flickering to and fro, and his mouth was ever set in a madman’s grin to show his rotting teeth. He introduced himself as the caretaker of the estate, and welcomed the relative of his old master heartily.

“At least we won’t be run out of town,” Nori muttered to the crusader when they were finally led to what the caretaker called the Master’s Residence. “Some small comfort.”

“I’ll not call it a comfort until I am as mad as the caretaker,” Thorin answered quietly. “This place is chilling enough without his presence.”

There was little rest to be found in the residence, and Thorin and Nori decided to combat their restlessness with a little bit of exploration. They wandered through the hamlet, trying to ignore the stares from the natives. When they climbed the hill at the outskirts of the hamlet, they found their employer; he stood alone at the top, staring north with wide eyes.

“The caretaker gave me a map,” he told them when they joined him. “And told me that I can see much of the land from here. Never did I believe that I would see my ancestor’s home…”

They gazed out across the land, and Thorin felt shivers run down his spine when he saw the distant mansion perched on its cliff by the sea. Even from this distance, the old building looked as though someone had tried to burn it to the ground.

“That is our goal, is it not?” he asked quietly. “The mansion?”

“Not the mansion itself,” the employer answered with a surprisingly steady voice. “But what lies below. He dug far below it, and uncovered many passages on his way to the heart of the land.” He raised his arm and pointed, and the crusader and highwayman looked in the direction they were pointed to; not very far up the hill they could see stone buildings peeking above the treetops. “The ancient seat of my family. My ancestor’s efforts ruined much of the estate, and those ruins might never again be restored to their former glory.”

“We will ensure that they are,” Thorin stated firmly. “That is why you hired us.”

“He hired us to fight back the abominations that scour the lands,” Nori said with a sharp look at the crusader. “Not to rebuild. Fighting I can do, but I am better at destroying than rebuilding.”

“I must admit that Nori is correct.” The employer smiled, though it was without mirth. “I will not wish to live here when the deed is done. It might mean redemption for my family name, but I have little faith that the estate will ever be restored.”

Thorin thought of his own family, of how easily they’d been laid low. Though he always longed to one day go back to his old home, to be laid to rest beside them all, he understood the young man’s reluctance. Not all homes would be welcoming after being cleansed of so many horrors.

 

* * *

 

 

The first few days were quiet; Thorin and Nori focused on learning all they could of what could await them. The caretaker provided them with books and old scrolls, all that he had managed to save from the townspeople when they tried to burn the mansion. But it was far from all that there was – no one had ventured near the mansion for a long time, and those who had tried never returned. There was no information to be found on what might lay in wait in the places they had to venture into. Their employer buried himself in the books as well, having found several accounts of what his ancestor had been dealing with.

It was not until the fourth day since their arrival that their new routine was interrupted. The employer had left the residence early, and at midday the caretaker came to fetch the crusader and highwayman.

“The young master has sent for you,” the grinning man said. “He awaits you near the old tavern. A stagecoach has arrived with guests.”

“Who would come here willingly?” Nori muttered as they left the residence; he glanced nervously over his shoulder at the grinning caretaker who still stood in the doorway and stared after them. “I feel chilled to the bone only by being in this house.”

“I suppose the young master has sent for someone,” Thorin answered uncertainly. “Perhaps people have heard of his venture.” He shook his head, frowning at the thought. “Vultures come to pick over the bones of what carcasses they find, no doubt.”

The tavern in the little town was barely distinguishable from any of the other run-down buildings. Only the sign by the boarded up doorway, faded and hanging from one chain, showed where it had once been. They had barely rounded the corner before Thorin came to a halt, eyes wide as he saw the newcomers. Their employer turned and smiled at them.

“Thorin, Nori,” he said by way of greeting. “We have new recruits willing to aid us in our venture. I believe their skills will be of use.”

One of the newcomers, a woman in white robes and with a chainmail shirt, smiled at Thorin and raised an eyebrow. She pulled back her hood, revealing long dark hair kept in a thick braid.

“Do you not greet your family anymore, Thorin?” she asked. “And after all the trouble I’ve had trying to find you!”

“You’re leaving,” Thorin answered, his voice more steady than he’d thought it would be. “You are _not_ coming with us, Dís.”

“Sadly, I have already accepted the offer of employment,” Dís answered with a laugh. “You know you’ll need me. How many times haven’t I patched you up before?”

“This is different,” Thorin argued, avoiding the searching gazes of his employer and of Nori. “I will not have my sister in danger.”

“We have faced danger together before,” Dís sighed. “Stop your arguing, brother. Bilbo and I have travelled far, and we are tired and hungry. Instead of trying to convince us to climb back into the coach for another bumpy ride, you should be showing us where we’ll be staying.”

“Bilbo?” Thorin frowned at the unfamiliar name, his gaze flickering to the other newcomer; a small man in green robes with the mask of a plague doctor. “Who?”

“That would be me,” the little man said, his voice somewhat muffled behind the mask. “It is a pleasure to meet you at last, Thorin. Your sister has spoken highly of you.”

“I’ll let you get acquainted,” the employer stated quickly, giving Thorin a quick smile. “Or reacquainted, as it seems. There is much I must see to.”

He left them there, and Thorin found that he did not feel one bit better knowing who his new companions would be.

“Back up for a moment,” Nori said once they were alone. “This woman’s your sister, Thorin?”

“So I am,” Dís answered, her easy smile turning cold as it was turned to Nori. “A sister of the Light as well, so you might cease your staring.”

“A stare of awe, I assure you,” Nori grinned. “Never heard of siblings both seeking the church.” He turned his gaze to Bilbo and cocked his head to the side. “You’re an odd one. What’s that mask supposed to be?”

“Protection against diseases,” Bilbo answered with a laugh. “I’ve grown accustomed to wearing it wherever I go, I’m afraid.”

“A wise decision,” Nori commended. “Who knows what one could catch in this place?”

“Too much, I’m sure.” Bilbo nodded to Nori, and even though his face was not visible, Thorin could swear that he was smiling. “And I hope you shan’t need any treatment, either of you.”

“We shan’t,” Thorin rumbled, catching their attention again. “Because neither of you are coming with us.”

“Might I point out, master Thorin,” Bilbo said, and there was a considerable force in his voice, “that you are not in any position to argue. We came here voluntarily, and though your sister finding you again is an added bonus, so to speak, we came here to help the young master of these lands. He has offered employment, and we have already accepted. You will need our help, whether you want it or not.”

Before Thorin could open his mouth to retort, Bilbo put a hand on Nori’s arm and nudged him into movement.

“Come, why don’t you show me where we are to stay?” he requested. “I would dearly like to lay and rest for a while.”

Nori glanced quickly at Thorin, gave him a toothy grin and shrugged and so led Bilbo away. Thorin wagged his mouth in protest and Dís laughed at the look on his face.

“You’ll find him hard to argue with,” she stated cheerfully. “He is a fine companion; respectful when needed and stubborn as a mule.”

“He looks weaker than you do,” Thorin snapped in response. “That says enough.”

“Yet he has been tried in battle already.” The vestal raised an eyebrow at her brother. “Do you judge him already?”

“I do not trust him, nor anyone else than you.”

“You will have to trust them, brother. How else are you to reach the end of this venture?”

 

* * *

 

 

The halls of the ruins were massive, and the passages far from empty. The small group of adventurers quickly grew accustomed to finding a room they had once left empty suddenly occupied if they returned to it, and not seldom by something nefarious. There were spiders, large enough to reach Thorin’s neck – which meant that they were as big as Bilbo. The small man had been swearing for a good long while the first time they had encountered the skittering creatures, and it had taken Dís counting up the amount of prayers the plague doctor would have to recite to atone for it all to make him stop. There were humans there as well, though how they had survived was impossible to figure out. Cultists, as their employer had told them once they returned from their first mission of scouting the halls, who had moved into the area in order to be closer to whatever horror the ancestor had awoken in the lands. The undead scared them more; shambling skeletons and corpses, moved by an unseen force and ever searching for them once the alarm had been raised. They were strong, but not unbeatable. Nori had quickly found that a bullet breaking the skull of one could be enough to send the bones crashing to the ground, never to move again.

Thorin had to reluctantly admit that Bilbo had proven useful. He was quick and clever, and it seemed that he was good for more than curing diseases. He carried a satchel with him wherever he went, filled with what Thorin had quickly found out were grenades filled with different sorts of gas; one could blind the enemies, others could inflict them with something that almost seemed to tear at their lungs to make them cough up blood. Aside from this, he also had a knife at his belt, though he only ever used it if he truly had to – with it, he could swiftly cut the throat of whoever came a little too close. But even when not in battle, he proved himself to be a trustworthy comrade. When Dís was unable to help, Bilbo was quick to give both Thorin and Nori little vials of tonics that he had brought with him, tonics that brought strength back to their limbs and dealt with minor wounds.

As they sat around their campfire, hidden away in a corner of the ruins, Thorin eyed the smaller man and brooded over whether or not his different array of items could help them in what was to come. Bilbo seemed calm; he had taken off his mask, if only for a moment, and watched the flames with hooded eyes. He looked almost about to fall asleep.

“Do you think we can do it?” Nori suddenly asked, breaking the silence and drawing everyone’s attention. “A necromancer is a necromancer, after all…”

“And the young master said that there could be more than one,” Dís agreed gloomily. Her mood had taken a sudden turn for the worse during this venture, and she had been quiet all evening. “What was it he said? The ancestor invited guests to the mansion, no?”

“Guests who taught him about necromancy,” Bilbo filled in quietly. “Whom he then murdered in cold blood, once he had learnt all he could, and brought back to life – somehow keeping at least part of their intellect intact – and confined within these halls.”

“No wonder the family is hated,” Nori stated. “But now we’ve been sent to deal with at least one of them. But do you think we can do it?”

Bilbo turned his gaze on Thorin, a questioning look in his eyes.

“You’ve fought undead before, have you not?” he asked. “Before we came here, I mean.”

“I have,” Thorin answered steadily, turning his gaze back to the flames. “But not necromancers. I know not what we will face.”

He bit back the words that fought to leave him; that he feared whatever laid ahead. He had been stalwart thus far, a rock for his comrades to lean on when they despaired. Only in his prayers did he allow himself to fear, as he whispered pleas of mercy in the night. Dís, who knew him well, seemed aware of his state of mind and often stayed awake long enough to pray with him.

Bilbo still watched him, having straightened up now from his previously hunched position. Suddenly the plague doctor reached out, touching the crusader’s arm.

“We have two warriors of the Light with us,” he said softly. “We will not fall, not with the gods on our side.”

Thorin found himself unwilling to move away from the light touch, but he did not turn to look back at the smaller man. The words were comforting, and he had naught else to say.

 

* * *

 

 

They were surrounded. Thorin had not so much as considered what might happen when fighting a necromancer. He had been taught by members of the church that raising the dead required complicated rituals to be performed, and he had thought that such a thing would take time. The creature in red robes before them seemed to conjure new skeletal warriors to fight for him as easy as breathing, and before they knew it, they were surrounded by the ghastly creatures. Dís and Bilbo were pressed back to back behind Thorin and Nori, who struggled valiantly to hold the creatures off. Whatever was in the grenades Bilbo had brought, it seemed to do wonders on the skeletal warriors; their very bones eroded, causing them to collapse. The necromancer was not immune to it either. Thorin told himself that if they survived, he would have to thank the little man. Dís called on holy magic whenever she did not have to heal the injuries of her companions – light flashed and made the undead burst and fall to the floor, and the crusader could hear his sister muttering prayers under her breath. Nori seemed to trust Thorin to hold off the skeletons, and focused his fire on the necromancer instead. He swore loudly each time a bullet struck its target without bringing the wretched thing down.

Suddenly a small gilded ball flew over their heads, bursting open in sparks to let out gas as it landed by the feet of the necromancer. The creature swayed, and seemed unable to do anything else.

“Hurry,” Bilbo cried. “Thorin, Nori! Hurry! It won’t last long!”

Realising what he had just seen, Thorin dove forward; the skeletons were not quick enough to stop him, and he knew that at least those could easily be handled by his comrades. Whispering a prayer and thanking Bilbo in his thoughts for his sure arm, the crusader brought his sword down in a mighty swing, a wild guttural cry telling him that he had found his mark. For a moment, he stared at the sunken face beneath the red hood, seeing the rotten mouth open wide. In a swift movement, he wrenched his blade free and swung it at the creature’s neck, a horrid stench striking him as the head rolled off its shoulders and the necromancer fell to the floor.

He stood there, wondering distantly if it was done, if the creature would not simply get back up again, but the cries of his companions brought him back to reality swiftly enough. The magic was not broken yet, he saw as he turned around to still find several skeletal warriors shambling towards him. But there would be no more.

“Very well,” he stated, smiling grimly behind the visor of his helmet. “Who wishes to be returned to the grave first?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this may just be a thing now because I've played too much of Darkest Dungeon, and have binge-watched a playthrough of the game on Youtube. Don't judge me.  
> All in all, though, I do love the game - even though it makes me rage like nothing else ever can. And I had the thought of Thorin as a crusader, and then I was stuck and had to write this story.


	2. As The Light Gains Purchase

The return to the hamlet was a blessing; before this venture, Thorin had never imagined that he would feel relieved upon arriving at such a desolate place, or that he and his companions would be welcomed by the town’s inhabitants. They came back weary and hungry, their packs filled with what loot they could carry, and the townspeople rejoiced. The little hamlet lived again, though it was a sad excuse of a life compared to what the group had known before. Still no one ventured into the forest, or anywhere near the mansion. But the tavern was opened again and had patrons streaming in day and night, and the abbey had been cleaned up and had its own holy man tending to it after many years of having been naught but a ruin.

The young master was never idle when the adventurers were gone; every time they returned, it seemed that he had managed to hire new workers or recruits, or had had something repaired or improved upon. Others had arrived to the hamlet for work, and the employer had ensured that they were all divided into teams. They were hard at work, and Thorin felt surprisingly relieved to know that he and his companions would get to have a well-earned rest while others ventured into dangerous places. Their injuries could be taken care of, and they’d not have to see anything horrifying for a long while.

They spent their days as they saw fit – Thorin and Dís mostly in the abbey, Bilbo buried in whatever work he could find, and Nori mostly at the tavern. Sometimes they would join the highwayman, though the crusader and vestal never took to drink and said little. And sometimes Nori would come to the abbey for a word with Thorin and Dís. But the plague doctor was rarely seen.

 

* * *

 

 

The crusader had taken a decision. He felt certain that they would not have survived the battle against the necromancer if it had not been for Bilbo; the blinding gas had saved their lives. Thorin was reluctant to confess that he felt ashamed of not having thanked the plague doctor for his quick thinking, and he’d spent the first few days back in the little town debating with himself whether or not he ought to find the small man and have a word with him. Dís had been hounding him since they turned back from the ruins, talking loudly of how they had Bilbo to thank for being alive. Every time the subject had been brought up, she had glared daggers at her elder brother – and he had simply pulled down the visor on his helmet to hide his guilty expression and pretended that he didn’t notice. Nori seemed to find the entire matter amusing, and he wasted no chance in needling Thorin about how angry he must be to not have bested the necromancer on his own.

“Crusaders are lone wolves, are they not?” the highwayman had asked one day with a gleeful grin plastered on his face as he found Thorin sharpening his sword. “Must be terrible for you to travel with us now – and having to share the glory. Especially with someone like the dear doctor. Quite a little genius, that one, don’t know what we’d do without him.” He had paused and looked pensive for a moment before grinning brightly again. “Well, I might have an idea. We’d probably rot. Or be part of the horde of shambling skeletons.”

The crusader ground his teeth and gave no response. But in his mind, he decided. He would go and find the plague doctor later in the evening to have a private word with him.

And once twilight crept in and the shadows grew long, Thorin moved through the narrow passages in the residence towards the room that had been given to Bilbo. The plague doctor had taken a room on the bottom floor, refusing to go up the stairs for any reason whatsoever. When questioned on his choice, he had simply stated that he was not fond of heights, and that much of his work could be volatile – it was simply safer to be close to the ground. The door was at the end of a hallway and as the crusader approached it, he could hear the faint tinkling of glass and something that sounded almost like steam escaping a kettle. It seemed Bilbo was busy, and it was likely he would not hear a knock.

Thorin sighed to himself; simple manners demanded that he _had_ to knock, but as it seemed that the good doctor would not hear it, he made a rather foolish decision. He turned the doorknob and pushed the door open. The moment he did, an acrid stench struck him as green smoke welled out and stung his eyes. His lungs felt as though they were burned from the inside every time he coughed and gasped for air, and he stumbled backwards and leant heavily against the wall. Blinking away the tears that had welled in his eyes, he saw the doctor’s mask through the smoke. There were small lenses of glass set in the holes for the eyes, and Bilbo’s bright hazel eyes peered at him through them.

“Give me a moment,” came the small man’s muffled voice. “I’ll open the window to let the smoke out. Try to sit down a little bit, it’ll put you below the smoke and clear your head.”

Gently guided by steady hands, the crusader was moved until he sat leaning against the wall. He kept the cloth over his mouth and nose, still coughing every now and then until he noticed the smoke clearing a little bit. Bilbo soon came back, crouching down beside him and taking off his mask. He put a small vial containing viscous green liquid in the crusader’s hand, and motioned for him to drink it.

“Forgive me,” he said quietly. “I was trying to make more of this cure, and I fear I was at a step that is rather delicate. The door opening startled me, and I poured in a little too much.”

“That’s all it takes? That you’re startled?” Thorin managed to gasp out between coughs before he forced himself to down the contents of the vial. He took a few deep breaths once he was able, and found that his lungs no longer burned.

“Not precisely.” Bilbo looked chagrined, and he eyed Thorin nervously. “I was focused, that is all. But come, the smoke is gone now. Perhaps we could talk in there, rather than on the floor?”

After a little bit of manoeuvring, and realising that a smaller man helping a larger one up on his feet was trickier than it sounded, they moved into Bilbo’s room. There were bottles everywhere, and over the little hearth hung a small cauldron. It looked and smelled as though the liquid in it had been burnt, and even the plague doctor wrinkled his nose as he removed the cauldron from its place.

“I’ll have to start over,” he declared grimly. “It’s difficult to find the herbs needed for this anti-venom as it is.” He moved the cauldron to the table and glanced at the crusader. “How may I help you? I thought you’d perhaps spend your evening in the abbey – evening prayers are important, after all.”

“You do not pray?” Thorin asked carefully. It was, perhaps, not the most tactful question; not all appreciated having their beliefs questioned.

“I do,” Bilbo confessed, shooting him a small smile. “But I do not see the need of doing so in a more public setting than my own rooms. My prayers can be heard just as well from here.”

“Then you do believe?” The crusader tilted his head, watching the other man curiously. “I had not thought to seek religious convictions in a plague doctor.”

“I am a doctor,” Bilbo stated firmly. “Sometimes, it comforts patients to know that the one caring for them shares the belief that the Light will deliver them.” He turned away for a moment, his face unreadable. “Mostly, it is a comfort to the doctor himself. Though it does not surprise me that you thought of me as a heathen.”

“Not a heathen, precisely,” Thorin objected; his voice sounded more meek than perhaps he had intended, but he reminded himself that humility was a virtue. Admitting one’s faults was an important part of the teachings of the Light. “But I had not thought you would believe in the Light.”

“What did you want, Thorin?” Bilbo asked, his voice becoming sharper again. “You did not come here to ask me if I share your beliefs.” The man’s eyes narrowed as they turned to the crusader again. “You’ve not spoken with me since we returned. What is on your mind that you cannot say to Nori or your sister?”

“I wanted to thank you,” Thorin answered quickly. “I should have done so earlier – as soon as we left the ruins, in fact. You are the only reason we survived, I am sure of this. If you hadn’t managed to stun the necromancer, I doubt we would have made it out. We would have been worn out soon enough in our attempts to ward off the skeletons.” He took a deep breath, giving the doctor a searching look in an attempt to assess his reaction before he continued. “You saved our lives. And I owe you.”

Bilbo only raised an eyebrow as a small disbelieving smile appeared on his face. When he finally spoke, it seemed he only had one answer:

“I didn’t save anyone. I gave you a chance. You saved us, Thorin, and I am only sorry that I did not thank you earlier for your courage.”

The crusader relaxed and smiled back at the smaller man, a warmer smile than he had given anyone else than his sister in a long time.

“Agree to disagree, then,” he said and held out his hand, his smile becoming a little wider when Bilbo grasped it firmly. “Nevertheless, I am glad to travel with you and I would be honoured to have your friendship.”

“I give you that freely, Thorin,” Bilbo laughed. “And I hope to have yours as well.”

 

* * *

 

 

Bordering the hamlet and the ruins was the Weald, a dark forest with twisting pathways leading through it. It was easy to get lost in there; judging by what previous parties sent by the young master had found, many had never made it out. Thorin, having grown used to dark places after so many ventures into the ruins, realised quickly that he felt intensely uncomfortable, more than he had in the ruins. The previous parties had reported that a sickness rested in the forest – nature itself had become caught in the land’s corruption, and nothing thrived anymore. The animals had either left or succumbed. The crusader and his group had not spent more than a few hours in the forest before they found out just what had been meant by _succumbed_ ; packs of rabid canines prowled in there, starved nearly to death and desperate enough to attack whatever came in their path. Nori swore that one they’d had to fight had a gaping hole in its side and that he could see its innards.

It was a slow journey, made tedious by how often they were required to stop and rest. Bilbo had very carefully gone through each and every report the other groups had given the young master, and had begun to insist that every little scratch be cleaned properly. He had stuffed multiple vials of anti-venom into their packs specifically for this venture after explaining that several recruits had been lost to the very blight that his mixture was made to combat – the same blight he used for some of his grenades that the party had seen at work in the ruins.

“It is not a corruption caused by the young master’s relative and his experiments,” Bilbo stated one evening around the campfire, sighing almost with relief as he removed his mask. “It is a natural thing – a particular sort of fungus that I believe you should all be familiar with by now.” He smiled wryly as his companions grimaced or winced. “Those patches you’ve all stepped in. They’ve run rampant here, of course, which is unusual in itself. A natural trap, rather than man-made.”

“I’d set them all on fire, if you’d let me,” Nori snapped. He had been tasked with the rather unpleasant job of helping Bilbo to remove the fungi from their path for most of the day, as his hands were steadier with a knife than either Thorin’s or Dís’. A steady hand hadn’t always helped – he’d been subject to the anti-venom more than his companions, and found the taste and consistency utterly vile. “But no! Preserve the forest, you said to me. Look around you! There’s nothing here to preserve! All of it is dead or dying!”

“And yet I find I stand by my claim of us being trapped if you set anything on fire,” Dís growled. “Look around you, Nori. The grass is dry, the leaves crack under every slight movement. It’s a marvel the trees are alive. Everything would catch aflame within a mere moment!”

“I agree with both of you,” Thorin muttered as he put another log on the fire. “I’d gladly set it all on fire and cleanse this place, but would prefer to do so if we are at the forest’s edge. And if nothing else stood a chance of burning.”

“Well, none of you will get your wish granted,” Bilbo sighed. “There is still much of value here, and the corruption can be cleansed from the land.” He frowned and finished lamely: “It will just take quite a lot of time.”

“Time that _we_ do not have,” Dís answered firmly. “We are only here for one thing.”

“The hag,” Nori groaned. “We know.”

“But we don’t know why we’re looking for her,” Dís shot back. “I had little luck in finding any information about why a lone woman in the Weald would be of any importance.”

“Actually, she had a connection to the young master’s ancestor,” Bilbo said, frowning somewhat as he dug through his pack for a piece of bread. “Apparently she demanded entrance to the mansion and proved herself to have invaluable knowledge of herbs; she taught the ancestor a lot, and they even began a series of experiments together. It got out of hand.” He paused and grimaced. “She experimented on herself, as far as I could find out. Turned herself into a monstrosity that the ancestor found so distasteful that he sent her back into the Weald.”

“A monstrosity?” Nori asked, raising an eyebrow. “There are many definitions of that word, my friend, and none of them good. Perhaps you could elaborate?”

“She grew fond of human flesh,” Bilbo answered before biting into the bread he found. “And the experiments did something to her body. Changed her, until she was horrid to look at.”

“Grew fond of human flesh,” Dís repeated weakly, her eyes wide and her face pale. “Where did she get it, I wonder?”

“Victims of the experiments, likely as not,” Nori muttered. “Probably not with the ancestor’s knowledge.”

“But he must’ve found out!”

“Then that may be why he threw her out, no?”

Thorin gave Bilbo a long look, and finally the doctor noticed and turned to him with a confused expression.

“Have I said something wrong?” the small man asked carefully.

“No, far from it.” The crusader smiled at him. “I was merely thinking. When you first arrived in the hamlet, I thought that you would not be of any use to anyone, more than as a resident doctor. You have turned out to be inventive and resourceful, and quick to gather information. I am glad that I was wrong, and I am sorry I doubted you.”

Bilbo smiled back at him, relaxing at last at Thorin’s words.

“I would have doubted me too,” he answered steadily. “But this is information that is easy to find, if one bothers to look.”

“I did look,” Dís protested. “I found nothing!”

“That would be because the young master alone has access to his ancestor’s journals,” Bilbo laughed. “I asked him if I might take a look.”

The vestal huffed and crossed her arms; to any hidden onlookers, she might have looked annoyed, but Thorin could see the amused glint in her eyes as she peered at her companion.

“Well, at least we know why she is here,” Dís sighed. “But for what reason have we been sent to rid the Weald of her presence? If she stays away from the hamlet, she is hardly a bother.”

“She is a danger to wayfarers, if nothing else,” Nori stated quickly. “Especially if she feeds on human flesh. Though I wonder why any of the brigands would be in her presence – if they are even aware of her.”

“You did not know of her?” Thorin asked. He had thought that perhaps Nori would have known a bit more, but perhaps he had not spent time in this part of the forest. “I thought the brigands must have their camp deep in the forest, to avoid detection if nothing else.”

“I did not know of her,” Nori confirmed glumly. “The brigands spend most of their time close to the road, as did I when I was here last. Wandering out into the forest would have been the death of us all. And believe me, preacher, for all that these brigands seem insane, they would not risk their lives by going close to this hag if they knew of her. Hell, I wish I’d never heard of her now, pointless as it is with such a wish when we are walking straight into her net.”

“We are protected by the Light,” Dís stated. “Our fate is not the same as her victims.”

“Redemption or not, I would prefer to seek it elsewhere,” Nori grumbled in response. “If my fate is not to be the same as that of her victims, I should have trusted my gut and told the young master to sod off when he asked to hire me.”

Dís gently placed a hand on his shoulder, as though attempting to soothe him, and smiled.

“Whatever is in your past that you wish to atone for, Nori, it has already been done,” she said softly. “You have fought valiantly at our side and never deserted us. You are a stalwart companion in the battle against the darkness. The Light will see you through, as you are one of its own.”

“Whatever it is, eh?” The highwayman raised an eyebrow at the vestal. “And if it is murder, done by accident or not?”

His companions froze. Dís gave him a long searching look, as though attempting to make sense of what he had just said.

“What do you mean?” she asked warily.

“I had set up an ambush,” Nori explained after a moment of silence. He stared into the fire, clenching his fists in his lap. “A stagecoach came down the road, and I knew it belonged to a rich family. I didn’t know who was inside, didn’t bother to look. I incapacitated the driver. Didn’t kill him, just made sure he couldn’t run off and tell anyone, or stop me. Then… I heard movement in the coach. And I thought it would be someone armed, so I fired my pistol twice.” He took a deep breath, finally looking up and staring Dís in the eye. “I never miss my target. And I hadn’t missed the heads of the woman and the child in the coach.” He exhaled forcefully. “After that, I left that life. Sought other careers. And I stumbled upon the young master in a tavern, and decided I had to do _something_ good with my life.”

For a long while, they were all silent; the words slowly sank in. Dís kept her hand on the highwayman’s shoulder as she finally answered:

“You are already forgiven. The Light forgives those who truthfully seek redemption – no matter their deeds. As I said, we are protected by the Light, and that will not change. Not for you, not for us.” She tried for a smile, shaky though it was. “Despite your past, you have your honour. You have your code, and it has led you thus far. So long as you walk the narrow road, I will pray for you and the success of your quest.”

Thorin bit the inside of his cheek and looked away. He heard the tremor in his sister’s voice – she had been affected by the necromancer alone, and now she faced yet another test for her faith. She should never have had to bear the sins of others. He spared the highwayman a glance, finding that he was glad the man had spoken his mind; much as Dís should not carry the sins of others on her back, Nori no longer had to bear his burden alone.

“Then I hope you keep us all in your prayers, sister,” Nori said quietly, smiling faintly at the vestal’s words. “We will need all help we can get, and divine aid would be a grand boon.”

 

* * *

 

 

The woman was a monstrosity indeed; whatever she had done to herself, it had made her enormous and fearsome to look at. It was amazing enough that she was able to move. Her years of feasting on those unfortunate enough to cross her path had made her grow fat indeed, but not enough to hinder her movement. Her strength was not gone either.

Thorin tried to keep his mind on what they were aiming for as he narrowly dodged yet another blow from the hag’s mallet. It was difficult to reach her; she kept her cauldron between herself and the adventurers, swinging her weapon at whoever dared come too close. Several wicked blows had already struck them in their desperate attempts to get close enough for a finishing strike, and they were growing weary. The hag, on the other hand, seemed to be growing frustrated with her prey and had begun to make grabs for them in attempts to lift them into the boiling mixture in her cauldron. Thorin and Nori had been forced to grab on to Dís as the hag tried to pull her backwards and lift her into the cauldron, and Bilbo had tried to force the hag’s attention away from the vestal with his grenades. It seemed that they couldn’t get anywhere.

“We have to get out of here,” Dís cried when she struggled back on her feet. “Light save us, we have to go before we are all doomed!”

“Can’t hear you,” Nori called back with forced cheer before firing another shot at the woman, missing her head by only an inch. “Busy aiming!”

“It’s not working,” Bilbo cried desperately. “My grenades aren’t affecting her!”

“Then use your knife,” Thorin shouted. “We are not going anywhere until this vile creature is dead!”

The crusader swore under his breath. He’d tried to topple the cauldron over, but found that it was far too heavy to move. Something gave this woman strength, but he couldn’t figure out what it might be. But it had to be possible to defeat her, and without losing their lives. He glanced to his side and saw how both Bilbo and Nori brandished their knives; it seemed the highwayman was out of bullets. And suddenly, he knew what to do.

“Flank her,” Thorin and Dís cried out simultaneously. The crusader felt a momentary surge of pride for his little sister, but he pushed it aside and continued: “One of you will be able to land a blow! Go, quickly!”

Without glancing back at their companions, Bilbo and Nori rushed forward. Whoever was given the opportunity to strike would only have a short window to do so. The hag, however, seemed to have other plans. The moment the two men reached her, she swung her mallet again; Bilbo had to throw himself down to the ground to avoid being hit. Nori, however, was not so lucky. With a sickening crunch, the mallet struck his head – the force of the blow was enough to send him flying off his feet and landing heavily on the ground. Thorin and Dís cried out and hurried forward. It felt as though they moved through water, in almost a dreamlike state, as they watched Bilbo trying to get to his friend. The hag kicked him, forcing him away, and brandished her weapon yet again. Nori, still somehow conscious, turned his head and gave them a weak smile.

“Good luck,” was all he had time to choke out before he was struck again.

Thorin heard his sister shriek as they saw the highwayman’s skull cave in under the force of the second strike. Before the hag had a chance to straighten, a bright light filled the glen; Dís had raised her mace to the heavens, invoking what powers she had been blessed with. The strike of the Light’s judgement made the woman gasp for air and pause, long enough for another onslaught of blows to land on her. Almost simultaneously, Thorin and Bilbo struck – Bilbo’s knife bit into her leg, and Thorin’s sword sliced open her arm. Just as they reared back for another attack, Dís once more invoked the Light, sapping what little life was left in the hag. Her heavy body fell to the side, eyes and mouth wide open in shock. She’d never rise again.

Before her comrades could stop her, Dís rushed to Nori’s side. She fell to her knees beside him and pressed her hands against his chest, her healing chant ringing in the otherwise silent glen. Nothing happened. Nori did not move. The vestal’s chanting continued, taking on an almost desperate note. Finally her companions couldn’t bear it any longer; Bilbo carefully wrapped his arms around her and pulled her away, whispering soothing words to her as she clung to him and wept.

“I said the Light would protect him,” she gasped out between her sobs. “I said the Light recognised him as one of its own, and I have been made a liar.”

Thorin knelt beside his friend’s mangled body and removed his helmet, placing it on the ground before he pressed two fingers to his lips and then gently pressed them against Nori’s forehead.

“You are not and have never been a liar, sister mine,” he said softly. “The Light has recognised him, and has brought him into its arms.” He closed the highwayman’s eyes, bowed his head and whispered: “You sought redemption, and you found it. Be at peace, Nori, now and ever after. Light shine upon your soul.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really feel like a douche for ending the chapter like this...


	3. The Way Is Lit

Every evening during their journey back to the hamlet, Thorin and Dís would briefly uncover Nori’s mangled remains and whisper prayers over them in hope that the Light would protect the dead man’s soul. Bilbo resolutely looked away whenever they did so, explaining when asked that he couldn’t stand the sight of a friend in such a state. When the vestal slept, the plague doctor sought Thorin’s company as he kept watch; he said little and preferred to simply sit there in companionable silence, but Thorin never wondered at the change in him.

“I could have helped him,” he said morosely to the crusader one night. “I could have done something. I was closer than either of you.”

“No one could save Nori at that moment,” Thorin told him quietly; he loathed the words the moment they left him and wished that they did not ring as true as they did. “He knew it. If there had been the slightest chance to survive, he would be here with us. The only one who is to blame for his death is the hag, and she has already paid with her life. Do not carry the weight of the dead when it is not yours to bear – not when they are at peace.”

As soon as they approached the little town, people seemed to understand what had happened. The makeshift stretcher they carried said more than words could. It was soon taken away from them, and Nori was carried away towards the graveyard; Dís went with him, refusing to let anyone else be the one to say the last prayers over his body. When objections were raised, she told them outright that it was her duty – she would be the one to speak and ease her friend’s passage into the next world, or no one would speak at all. Thorin and Bilbo went straight to the residence to speak with the young master and inform him of the loss of yet another adventurer.

The young man looked haggard when they spoke with him and the news of the highwayman’s death made him sigh and sadly shake his head.

“He was a good man,” he murmured. “I pray he will rest in peace.”

“Does he not have any family?” Thorin asked carefully. “We should notify them.”

“All he ever told me was that he had two brothers,” the young master answered wearily. “They apparently died many years ago, before he joined the brigands.”

“Then he will see them again, at the very least,” Bilbo stated.

Thorin said naught of it, but he wished dearly that he could be certain of what the plague doctor said. Nori had fought for his redemption; whether or not he had found it was not for anyone to know.

 

* * *

 

 

They spent nearly a month in the hamlet, resting after the ordeal in the Weald. Every day they would go to the graveyard to visit Nori’s grave and pay their respects; Bilbo even begun to come with the vestal and crusader to the abbey in the evenings to pray. He said very little when they were there and never spoke directly to the abbey’s holy man.

“My faith is my own business,” he told them when they questioned him. “I do not need a holy man to tell me what to think or feel – but the prayers help ease my mind, and I would come with you again, if I am welcome.”

The young master did not call on them, though they saw him every now and then as he went through the hamlet to meet with someone or see how business fared. More recruits came, and only the best of them were brought into the fold. Thorin spent some of his time sparring with the newcomers, sharing what knowledge he had of the dangers they would face. Dís often came with him and prayed for the newcomers, blessing them however she was able. Bilbo, on the other hand, shut himself in his room; the window was often open, and those who looked towards it could see smoke billowing out into the free air to rise to the sky. Thorin came sometimes to him, if only to keep him company; he learnt more than he would once have cared to know of the doctor’s work, and gained valuable insight on how the blight could be cured. And Bilbo did not seem to mind his company – he never objected to the crusader’s presence, and seemed grateful for any conversation to keep his mind occupied while he worked.

It was on a rainy evening towards the month’s end that they were called to the young master. The caretaker came to fetch them, telling them between his quiet hysterical giggling that the master had a new companion for them.

“Have you seen him?” Thorin asked the grinning man as they were led through the residence towards the young master’s study. “Has he fought before?”

“I would not know,” the caretaker answered. “But he wears armour and carries weapons like anyone else in town nowadays.”

“It’s useless to ask,” Dís said quietly. “Let the caretaker do his job, Thorin, and do not ask unnecessary questions. We shan’t have any answers until we see the man ourselves.”

“Why not choose someone of those who are already here?” Bilbo muttered. “That would speed things up a little bit, rather than choose someone who might need training.”

The caretaker knocked on the door as they arrived, calling out to his master. Mere moments later, the door opened. The young man beamed at them as he beckoned for them to come in.

“I feel things are looking up,” he stated cheerfully as they filed past him. “A seasoned warrior is precisely what we need, and one has come to seek employment. I would like to send him with you, since you have more experience.”

Thorin ceased to listen as soon as he laid eyes upon the new recruit. A grizzled man stood before the study’s desk, arms crossed and a scowl on his face. He was bald, though his head was decorated with tattoos. He was clad in armour, as the caretaker had stated, and carried a mace in his belt and a shield on his back. Numerous scars covered the man’s skin, and a piece of his ear was missing. The crusader didn’t even have time to open his mouth before his sister dove forward with a loud cry, flinging her arms around the man’s neck.

“Finally some good news,” Dís laughed. “It does a heart good to see you, Dwalin!”

The man’s scowl faded and was replaced by a grin and a booming laugh as he wrapped his arms around the vestal and lifted her off the floor in a fierce hug.

“If it isn’t little Dís,” he cried. “I thought you’d still be in the convent! Look at you, clad in mail like the warrior you always should have aimed to be!”

“I am a vestal, you dolt, it is just as good!” Dís grinned brightly as he put her down and turned to her brother. “And at least I am not alone here.”

Thorin grinned as well as he stepped forward to be pulled into a bone-cracking embrace. It had been far too long since he last saw his cousin – too long since he saw any extended family.

“You always arrive just when you are needed,” the crusader laughed. “Do you have a sixth sense for when we need you?”

“Haven’t found out yet,” Dwalin answered brightly. “Though it’s leaning to that.” He glanced at the young master and raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t say they were here.”

“I was unaware that you knew each other,” the young man answered primly, though the smile he sported was genuine. “It makes me glad that you do, however – it will make things run much more smoothly.”

As the young master spoke, Dwalin’s eyes fell on Bilbo. The smaller man eyed him warily, gaze flickering between his companions and the burly man. Thorin noticed the silent exchange and patted Dwalin’s shoulder; his cousin was sometimes unaware of how intimidating he could be, and it had become something of a running joke between them.

“Dwalin, this is Bilbo,” the crusader said with a smile at the doctor. “He has been invaluable to us – a stalwart and dependable man.” He gestured for Bilbo to come a little closer and the small man did so, after a brief moment of hesitation. “Bilbo, this is my cousin Dwalin. He is a fierce warrior, and I promise you that he is kinder than he seems.”

“Kinder than I seem,” Dwalin snorted. “Must be getting sappy in your dotage, Thorin.” He held out his hand to the plague doctor. “But if my cousins speak well of you, I’ll trust you, little man. Dwalin Fundinson, at your service.”

“Bilbo Baggins at yours,” Bilbo answered as he grasped the warrior’s hand. “And I’ll say the same to you – if Dís and Thorin trust you, I’ll do so as well.”

 

* * *

 

 

Barely a week after the arrival of Dwalin, the group gathered in Bilbo’s room. The young master had decided to task them with another mission, and the plague doctor had gathered whatever information he could and asked his companions to come and see what he had found. The moment they were all there, he placed a large stack of papers on his little table.

“This is all the reports compiled by the other groups who have ventured into the warrens,” he stated. “As well as whatever writings the young master and the caretaker could find about the area. I cannot say it looks good for us.”

“From what you’ve all told me, there’s nothing here to say anything looks good for us,” Dwalin grumbled. “Walking corpses, necromancers, brigands, cultists, and cannibals… What waits in the warrens?”

“Allow me to start at the beginning.” Bilbo picked up one paper from the pile, peered quickly at it and handed it on to Thorin. “When the young master’s ancestor kept his men digging, they broke into catacombs below the mansion, the exit of which was close to the border of the Weald. They found nothing in there but vermin at first.”

“Then why send us in there?” Dís asked, frowning as she took the paper from her brother.

“Experiments again,” Thorin muttered. “Give me that, Dís, and let me finish reading it.”

“Experiments indeed,” Bilbo sighed. “He attempted a summoning ritual, using pigs as vessels for whatever he tried to call from the outer spheres. Nothing went entirely as planned, though multiple entities did inhabit the bodies of the pigs.”

“ _Swine-folk_?” Dwalin sounded incredulous as he spoke, reading over the vestal’s shoulder. “They became sentient beings?”

“They mutated,” the plague doctor confirmed, “and became aggressive. It seems the ancestor chose to move them into the tunnels he’d found, ensuring that they would be out of the way.” He picked up another paper, smiling grimly as he read through its contents. “The previous groups who have been down there speak of horrible creatures – hogs and sows, walking as men and attacking whoever they identify as not being one of them. They feast on whatever they come across, and have taken over the tunnels entirely.”

Thorin took the paper from him, frowning as he read.

“Multiple traps,” he stated. “Circular saws that spring out of the floor if you step in the wrong place.” He shook his head. “I can’t say I’ve ever been good with traps…”

“I am certainly no better,” Dwalin hummed. “But perhaps we might speak with some of these groups, and see what they found to work with disarming them.”

“The blight in there is easy enough to combat,” Dís said as she took the report and read through it. “Though I worry about disease.”

“The blight and disease I can deal with,” Bilbo answered. “But that is not all.” He took yet another paper from the pile and held it up. “The young master found information about why the swine have not left their home. They do have a leader, and it is this leader we are being sent to take out.”

Thorin rose from his seat and stepped round the table to stand beside Bilbo, eyeing the worn paper with a grim look on his face. The writings were far from comforting.

“The ancestor did summon a powerful entity at one point,” he summed up. “And the vessel grew to gargantuan size and became too difficult to contain – it required massive amounts of food and grew very aggressive.”

“Precisely,” Bilbo sighed. “It is down in the warrens as well, leading the swine only by merit of being the largest and able to eat the rest of them.”

“They have their own prince, then,” Dwalin said sarcastically. “Isn’t that lovely.”

“Any information on the creature itself, apart from this?” Thorin asked. “Or is the ancestor’s notes all we have?”

“There’s nothing else,” Bilbo replied. “It was the only mention the young master could find of this creature.”

“Then we’re going in blind,” Dwalin stated, a grim smile on his face. “Some adventure you people stumbled upon, eh?”

“Not entirely blind, not in regards to what others have faced.” Dís had snatched another report from the pile and read through it quickly. “It would seem the swine have a limited set of skills for their people – their weapons are crude, and they are not _quite_ as intelligent as humans.”

“You’ll want to read through those reports,” the plague doctor insisted. “Though we cannot know precisely what we will face, it will help to know a little bit of the place.”

“So long as you do not mind the company for tonight,” Thorin answered, giving the smaller man’s shoulder a squeeze. “It’ll be easier if we can discuss what we find.”

Bilbo smiled at him and nodded, and the crusader felt his spirits lift slightly. Whatever horrors they would face would surely be made easier by sticking together.

 

* * *

 

 

The stench was the first thing that struck them when they pulled open the heavy barred gate to the warrens. Years upon years of excrement and decay having been left untouched was not a pleasant smell; they all gagged and retched, having to move away from the gate for a moment to steel themselves. Bilbo seemed less affected than his companions – he explained, a little sheepishly perhaps, that he had placed a bundle of sweet-smelling herbs in the snout of his mask to combat diseases. That they also helped with the stench was a pleasant side-effect.

They moved slowly, following what vague directions they had from previous reports. The tunnels were difficult to keep track of, and Thorin soon found that he had no idea where he was or which direction they’d come from. Dwalin fared better, though he also couldn’t figure out where exactly they were. But when they were forced to trace their steps to previous rooms, he was the one to pull the others back and tell them where they’d come from. What fights they found were quick and easy enough to end; the swine, it seemed, had not expected company. They were easily surprised and though they were certainly more intelligent than animals, they were easily rounded up and kept from escaping. But for every squeal, for every screech, the group glanced nervously at every door or open passage and tried to listen for running footsteps. But no one came to challenge them unless they found them first. It would seem the alarm had not been raised just yet.

When they reached the point where the reports could no longer guide them, Dís took to making small marks on the walls to show where they had been and which rooms they had entered; if they were forced to retreat, her markings would mean the difference between life and death. Thorin was sceptical – after all, the markings relied entirely on that they would have the time, or the light, to _see_ them and they had precious few torches to spare. But it was all they had to find their way back out, and it would have to do.

The darkness made them nervous, and having to camp in the tunnels was a horrifying thought. But soon enough they knew they had to stop – they were too tired to get any further without resting for more than a few minutes. Flint and tinder was brought out, and at the very least they did not have a shortage of fuel. There was plenty that would burn well, and it would last throughout the night without any problems. But the light of the campfire did little to soothe their minds, or to keep them from fearing the door- and passageways that still laid in darkness. Every little moving shadow seemed a threat, even after Bilbo had very firmly told his companions that it was most likely rats.

“They must breed quickly down here,” he said pensively, watching one of the rodents scurrying away from the light’s edge. “There’s hardly a shortage of food.”

“The swine can feed on the rats as well as each other,” Thorin agreed. “And same for the rats. The dead do not go to waste.”

“Rats would be preferable to the swine,” Dwalin grumbled. “Vile creatures…”

“Neither is preferable,” Dís protested. “They’re all vermin – we need to root them out.”

“Do you fear rats, little sister?” Thorin asked with a smirk, giving the vestal a playful nudge with his shoulder. “Even after all you have seen?”

“I said they are vermin,” Dís growled, glaring at her brother. “Not that I fear them.”

“I am inclined to agree with Dís,” Bilbo muttered as he put another piece of wood on the fire. “They are all vermin, but sadly, one is a natural occurrence in such places as this. Our only mission is to rid the warrens of the swine.”

Thorin grimaced at the thought. The fights they had faced before finally making camp had been tough; their opponents were difficult to read, as they did not seem to follow anything else than instinct. What intellect they possessed had allowed them to create makeshift armour and weapons, making them seem more monstrous than they truly were. He had been cornered by one earlier that had replaced one hand with a crude sharp hook and its feet with what looked like sharp metal pieces. How it had been able to move without squealing in pain was beyond him, but perhaps one would get used to such torment if it had been all one knew.

“Some adventure you’ve stumbled upon,” Dwalin stated grimly, echoing his words back in the residence and breaking Thorin out of his reveries. “I’d rather have fought in another war than have to do this.”

“At the very least, we are doing the Light’s work,” Dís shot back, smiling at her cousin. “That counts for something, does it not?”

“Perhaps it does for you.” Dwalin shook his head and sighed. “I will be thankful and say my prayers once we have escaped alive.”

 

* * *

 

 

That the creature had grown to gargantuan size after the ancestor’s summoning seemed an understatement. The massive thing could barely keep itself upright in the hall the swine had carved out for it, its head nearly brushing the ceiling every time it moved. It was surprisingly fast, making the group have to scurry about in a near panic every time it attempted to strike at them. Thorin, however, mostly kept his eyes on the smaller swine that kept itself close to its master’s side; it held something that looked like two flags and was constantly gesturing this way and that with them. The crusader’s eyes widened as he realised what the little swine was doing, and it seemed he was not alone in noticing.

“It’s signalling,” Dwalin roared from the other side of the hall. “That little bastard tells the big one who to attack!”

He leapt forward, mace lifted high and guard lowered. Thorin’s eyes left him the moment the swine prince moved again, and he cried out as he realised what was about to happen.

“Dwalin, no! Get back!”

The little swine didn’t as much as flinch as the warrior approached. Before Dwalin could get close enough to swing at it, an enormous hand came hurtling towards him at a disquieting speed. It swatted him away almost as one would swat at a fly, and sent him flying; he crashed against the wall with a crash, a strangled shout leaving him as he crumpled onto the floor. Dís rushed to his side, barely dodging another strike from the creature. Thorin looked around in panic, trying to spot his last companion; he hoped desperately that his friend was not hurt. Bilbo, however, was huddled against the wall opposite from the creature and was frantically digging through his satchel. Though it was relief he felt at the sight of his friend unharmed, there was a nagging desperation and fear in the crusader’s heart as he wondered what on earth the man was doing.

“Hurry up, Bilbo,” Thorin cried, throwing himself to the side as the hulking swine attempted to hit him. “Whatever you plan to do, do it now!”

“If you could keep them busy for just a moment, I might be able to at least make the little one stop interfering,” Bilbo shouted in response. “Unless the big one decides to smack this right back at me!”

Before the crusader had a chance to ask what _this_ was, a silver-coloured sphere came flying from Bilbo’s end of the hall. It sailed over Thorin’s head, past the outstretched hand of the swine prince, and landed right at the feet of the little one where it burst open and let out a billowing green gas. The swine squealed loudly, loud enough to make them all wince, and began to stumble about as though it couldn’t see. The swine prince at last no longer had directions to follow, though this did not stop it from attacking. It swung wildly, seemingly uncertain of what to do without any signals. Though Bilbo’s little trick had certainly incapacitated the little swine for a while, Thorin found that he couldn’t get past the prince’s wild swings. He alternated between muttering prayers and swearing under his breath as he tried and tried; the little swine was slowly coming back to himself, trying to stumble back to his protector. They were running out of time, and fast.

A roar sounded from behind him, and Thorin turned his head just in time to see Dwalin, bellowing in fury as he barrelled forward with his shield raised. Dís followed close behind him, rapidly reciting prayers as she healed what injuries the warrior sustained from the swine prince’s blows as they went.

“All into formation,” Dwalin bellowed, fending off yet another blow with his shield. “We are invincible! Follow behind me – I am your wall!”

Thorin’s eyes were wide behind his visor, but he followed almost automatically. Dwalin took blow after blow, and he rose back to his feet every time his knees buckled. Dís’ chanting grew more frantic as she struggled to keep up with the warrior’s mad pace. Bilbo followed behind them, grenade after grenade flying from his hands to find their target. The crusader managed for a moment to step in front of Dwalin; he fell to his knees almost immediately and steeled himself in preparation for what he knew would follow. He and his cousin had fought together before and needed no words to communicate their plans and it seemed this had not changed despite the years that had passed since last they met. Dwalin’s boot landed on his back, and the warrior launched himself into the air with a loud bellow that almost forced his companions to cover their ears. A sickening crunch followed, and Thorin lifted his head to see that his cousin had slammed his mace against the side of the swine prince’s head; its skull looked almost as though it had burst from the force of the blow. Dwalin landed back on his feet with a thud, barely managing to move out of the way before the gargantuan creature’s body came crashing down. He turned to his companions and grinned wildly at them.

“It seems there are miracles,” he laughed. “But I am no saint. Your prayers came well in hand, Dís! Now, where is that _little_ bastard? Best deposit all the filth in one place before we leave!”

 

* * *

 

 

It was an exhausted group that returned to the hamlet; exhausted, but alive and smiling and with their packs filled with loot. Precious gems that they had found in small stashes here and there, gold that previous adventurers may have dropped. It would be more than enough to keep operations going for a long while, and enough to put some into their own pockets. Once they had been allowed to rest and wash and had given their reports to the young master along with proof of the death of the swine prince, Dwalin cheerfully declared that he’d buy them all a round at the tavern.

“I know at least two of you prefer not to drink,” he said, giving his cousins a meaningful look. “But perhaps the Light might forgive you a pint or two in celebration of victory over such wicked creatures.”

“A drink does sound nice,” Dís hummed. “I can say my prayers later – a small indiscretion can be forgiven.”

“Lead on,” Bilbo laughed. “I feel a drink is sorely needed after this nightmare.”

“If Bilbo goes, I suppose I might as well,” Thorin agreed, smiling easily.

Dwalin only laughed his booming laugh and lead them to the tavern. There they were welcomed by those adventurers still in town and a clamour of voices asking to hear what they had faced. It fell to Bilbo to tell the story, poised as he had been at the very far end of the hall and with a view of all that had happened. Thorin listened with a smile – the plague doctor was a skilled storyteller. Had he not suffered through the horrors of the warrens along with him, the crusader would have thought it to be a strangely terrifying children’s tale of brave adventurers facing insurmountable odds. Recruits and veterans alike listened with bated breaths to the tale, nodding solemnly in places or giving out disbelieving gasps.

“Then up came Dwalin,” Bilbo said, nearing the end of his tale with every sign of enjoyment on his face, “roaring like a beast as he charged! He fought like a man possessed, taking blow after blow as we rallied and followed him back into the fray. Poor Dís was hard pressed to keep us all on our feet, Dwalin not the least – but blow after blow landed, and he simply would not go down!” The small man glanced at Thorin and smiled warmly. “But without Thorin there to help, I am sure we would have been doomed at last. I cannot say how, but he knew Dwalin’s mind and rushed past him while the horrid swine was occupied. What happened then I can only describe as a sheer miracle, as something out of a fairy tale.” He made a brief pause for effect, listening to how the tavern’s patrons scarcely even breathed for fear of missing the end. “Our dear crusader knelt upon the ground, tensing as though awaiting a blow, and Dwalin used him as a stepping stone to launch himself into the air. As a stone fired from a catapult he flew, striking that horrid creature with all force he could muster, and believe me or not, he _smashed_ its skull!”

Deafening cheers broke out, loud enough to make even Dwalin wince. But there was joy in the air for once, joy for yet another foe defeated and for the return of those victorious. Dwalin’s promise of buying his friends a round of drinks proved unnecessary, as many in the tavern were willing to pay for it simply for the tale of a glorious battle having been masterfully handled. Thorin, however, got to his feet and headed for the door – he did not wish to delay his evening prayers any further, and he had much that he wished to think of. But he barely made it outside before there was a hand on his shoulder and Bilbo’s voice sounded behind him:

“If you are going to the abbey, would you mind if I accompanied you? I can scarcely think in all this noise.”

“I thought you wanted a drink,” Thorin answered, smiling as the other man closed the door behind them. “Was it that horrible to have to tell the story?”

“I’ve had my drink, and now I am quite happy to be away from loud voices,” Bilbo laughed. “Though I fear your sister is still stuck in there. She looked horrified at being alone with Dwalin.”

“Horrified at having to deal with him drunk, probably,” Thorin snorted. “She knows him too well to believe that he’d be willing to leave so soon.”

They walked together, speaking of this and that, and soon the crusader found that his wish to reach the abbey diminished. He paused briefly at the road towards it, glancing up at the sky; the clouds were gone, and the moonlight gave some respite from the darkness. Stars twinkled above.

“Would you care to walk with me?” he blurted out suddenly. He cursed himself in his mind and hoped that the gloom would be enough to hide his flushed face when his helmet was not at hand. “I cannot remember a night here when the moon has been visible – it would be a shame to waste the light.”

Bilbo gave him a searching look, but nodded in agreement and fell into step beside him as he lead the way; he remembered the hill on the outskirts of town, and wondered if perhaps the land might seem less abominable in the moonlight. The abbey and his evening prayers were far from his mind as he navigated the dark paths around the hamlet, speaking quietly with the plague doctor. They fell silent at last as they reached the hill and began to climb it, focusing instead on not losing their footing or stumbling over rocks. The view once they reached the top seemed bleak. The mansion in the distance was more eerie than it had been in the light of day, and the lands about it were hidden in the dark. The crusader glanced at his companion and found that Bilbo resolutely looked away from the mansion and stared up at the sky.

“The sky seems so close here,” the small man said quietly. “Though perhaps I am fooling myself after scarcely seeing the sun for so long.”

Thorin said nothing, but kept his gaze on his companion. He thought suddenly of how he’d come to value Bilbo’s company; he cared for and loved his sister and cousin, but still it was Bilbo he sought out if he felt that he needed to speak with someone or simply wanted company. He thought of how the doctor had made him feel at ease every time he had begun to feel as though their attempts at holding the darkness at bay were in vain. Where even the ever stalwart Dís had despaired, Bilbo had made Thorin’s faith ever stronger.

“I feel I must thank you again,” he said at length. “It was you who gave us the opportunity to deliver the final blow in the warrens. Not Dwalin or I.” He took a deep breath to steel himself as the plague doctor turned his head to meet his gaze. “I do not know what I would do if you were not here.”

“Despair, probably,” Bilbo quipped, but his smile faltered when it was not returned. “Thorin, I am not as skilled as you seem to believe. It honours me that you think so highly of me, but still I must say that it is thanks to you that I am still here. That I still live and have not lost my mind in this place.” He tilted his head and tried for another smile. “Whatever horrors we may face next, I will not despair or fail if you are by my side.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What Dwalin shouts during his last charge are actual quotes from the game and are not of my own invention.
> 
> Say hello to Dwalin, the Man-At-Arms! Had to think for a long while about what he would be, and after ruling out Bounty Hunter (the axe was tempting but did not quite fit with the role I wanted for him here), only Man-At-Arms remained as something that could work.
> 
> The Swine Prince is not really a super-challenging fight in the game. It's made difficult because the little swine, Wilbur, puts a mark on you (on one or two heroes) that makes the one marked take extra damage from the Swine Prince's abilities. It sucks bad. Real bad. And you can't attack Wilbur either, because the Prince will essentially murder you for that. If you KILL Wilbur before the Prince, you are more or less screwed. So the only solution is to stun Wilbur and keep him stunned as much as possible to avoid massive damage while you whittle away at the Prince's life.


	4. In Radiance

Thorin had been taught as a child that evil never slept; therefore, the virtuous had to be ever vigilant. It was a notion he had previously found more fictional than anything else – but in his past few months of venturing into dark places he could never before have imagined, he’d come to see things differently. Evil did indeed never sleep, and they had to work fast if they wished to uproot it.

He thought of this as he ventured again down the passages of the residence towards Bilbo’s room; the sound of steam escaping and the clank of glass against metal was audible even at a distance, and had been for some time. The sun was barely up; still it seemed the plague doctor had not slept, or at least had left his work to finish itself. As he got closer, the sounds led him to lean a little more towards the first assumption. He smiled slightly to himself as he heard Bilbo muttering frantically behind the door, and lifted his hand and knocked. There was a pause in the muttering, and shuffling footsteps moved close to the door. A moment later it was cracked open and a wild-eyed Bilbo stared up at him. His curly hair looked like he had been tearing at it in frustration and the dark circles under his eyes made it look as though he had not slept for days.

“A little busy,” he said in a clipped tone. “What do you want?”

“To see if you were awake,” Thorin answered, raising an eyebrow. “The young master wanted to see us, if you recall.”

“That may have to wait,” Bilbo stated firmly, glancing quickly over his shoulder. “I have to get this right first. I simply cannot wander off.”

“May I wait here until you are done, then?” Thorin asked and smiled as the smaller man frowned at the question. “You know I can be quiet when you need to focus. I shan’t rush you.”

It took a moment, but finally Bilbo decided and moved back to let his friend enter. The room, as Thorin could see when he came inside, was an absolute mess. There were bowls, used and unused, and vials everywhere. There were herbs and a good deal of things in jars that Thorin would rather not know what they were, and papers with strange formulas written on them on practically every surface. Bilbo shuffled back to his hearth and stirred in the cauldron over it, muttering to himself again.

“Should be thickening, can’t think of why it _won’t_ ,” he grumbled. “I must have missed something. But what? Oh, I’ll have to find the bloody formula – wherever that is.”

“Perhaps I could help?” Thorin suggested carefully, trying for a soothing smile when Bilbo’s wide-eyed stare landed on him again. “Two pairs of hands and eyes are better than one, after all.”

“I need one of my formulas,” Bilbo explained urgently, apparently not bothering with secrecy this time. “It’s vital to the success of this mixture. But I simply cannot recall where I’ve put it, and it’s… Oh, blast it, it’s one of the papers in this room, I don’t know which!”

“You may have to be more specific than that,” Thorin stated drily and glanced around. “Or we will be here for days.”

“A formula!” Bilbo cried, giving the crusader the same look he normally gave anyone who questioned if his mixtures were in any way effective – the look that said he thought they might be a simpleton. “I cannot quite describe the contents, but there should be multiple illustrations, one of them depicting those little mushrooms we found in the Weald, and-“

“Look down,” Thorin interrupted, amusement bleeding into his voice.

“Pardon?”

“You _might_ be standing on it. Look down, Bilbo.”

The plague doctor blinked and looked down, a beatific smile appearing on his face as he saw what his friend meant; a parchment with the very illustration he had just mentioned could be seen peeking out from beneath his robe.

“Oh, bless you,” he laughed. “Never would have found that otherwise. Now let’s see, what did I miss?”

Thorin sighed and smiled; lack of sleep could do a lot of things to a person and it seemed it made Bilbo somewhat forgetful. He watched in silence as the small man bustled about, fetching what he had forgotten and quickly stirring it into the mixture.

“There,” Bilbo sighed, lifting the cauldron away from the hearth and placing it on a little stand beside it. “Well, now I believe I could leave it for a while. It has to cool, at any rate, and the fire’s embers are dying down. You said the young master wanted to see us?”

“As he said the other day,” Thorin confirmed, laughing quietly when the plague doctor blinked in confusion. “Though perhaps you forgot to sleep, and thus forgot what he said.”

“Entirely possible. That blasted formula has had me at my wit’s end all night.” Bilbo stretched and yawned. “I may as well sleep later; I can still stay awake a bit longer. His study, then?”

Thorin felt almost sad to leave Bilbo’s little disaster-area, oddly soothing as it was, but they didn’t have much of a choice. If the young master wished to see them, there was more work to be done; they had been on a few short ventures since they returned from the warrens, and every time they had returned victorious – though in varying mental and physical states. The crusader wished sometimes that he could convince his companions to leave with him, to go elsewhere to test their skills. But he knew already that they would most likely refuse. Dwalin had found again his taste for adventure, and Dís stubbornly refused to abandon the task that she insisted had been set before her by the Light. Bilbo could very well agree and come with him, but his work was needed in the hamlet.

Dwalin and Dís already waited for them outside of the study; they both smiled at the sight of their comrades, though it was more teasing than anything when they saw the state of Bilbo.

“Have you slept at all?” Dís asked bluntly. “You look horrible.”

“So do you,” Bilbo shot back. “And I assume you _did_ sleep.” He grinned unrepentantly at them and gestured to the door. “Is _he_ awake at all?”

“I should think so,” Dwalin answered. “There’s been grumbling noises every few minutes. What took you two so long?”

“Never you mind that,” Bilbo said cheerfully. “Well, shall we?”

The young master did not look as if he had gotten much sleep either. There were piles of paper all around the study, none of which had been there last time they had met him. But he smiled at them when they entered, though the warmth of it did not quite reach his eyes.

“Always more work to be done,” he said by way of greeting them. “I do hope it will end soon.”

“More reports?” Dwalin asked. “Where have you sent people lately?”

“Have you ever heard of the Cove?” the master asked, leaning back in his chair. He picked up a paper from one of the piles; whatever he read on it made him frown again.

“The bay?” Bilbo asked, eyeing the papers with curiosity shining in his eyes. “I believe I overheard some of the others speaking of it – they had to venture into a cave in the cliff-side, did they not?”

“They did indeed,” the young master answered. “The reports I have received from our scouting parties are troubling, and what I found among my ancestor’s journals confirm much of their findings.”

“What experiments caused something awful this time?” Dís sighed. “If it is another abomination like the horrid thing in the warrens…”

“I cannot say it is something pleasant.” The young man shook his head and sighed. “To be perfectly fair, I find it to be a sad story – an innocent woman from the hamlet who ran afoul of my ancestor’s temper.”

“What did he do to her?” Thorin asked; he feared the worst. What they had found out about the ancestor so far had not been pleasant. “Did he force her into the cave?”

Without answering, the master held out the paper to the crusader, motioning for him to take it. Thorin did so hesitantly and read through it; the words made his heart ache.

“The poor girl had taken a liking to the ancestor, it seems,” he sighed. “She followed him around wherever he went in town – he found her fascination charming, though he grew to consider it troublesome when she came too close to his private business.” He took a deep breath and looked up at his companions. “There are creatures living beneath the waves – and he struck a deal with them. She witnessed it all, and to keep her quiet he lured her to the pier, chained her to the idol he had agreed to deliver to the creatures, and threw her into the water.”

“As I said,” the young master said bitterly. “A sad story. An innocent woman’s life for gems and gold. I cannot say my ancestor has become any dearer to me after all I have found out about him.”

“What does a little girl have to do with anything?” Dwalin asked. “A sad story, I’ll agree, but you do make it sound as though there is another point.”

“I had sent a party into the cave not too long ago,” the young man explained. “To seek whoever leads those fish-like creatures. Only one of them returned, babbling about a siren.”

Thorin and his companions shot each other quick glances.

“A siren,” Dís repeated. “And you believe she was once the poor girl who ran afoul of your ancestor?”

“I cannot be certain,” the master admitted. “But it would not surprise me. If those creatures took her, who’s to say they might not be able to turn someone into one of their own. You must admit that there are stranger things in these lands.”

 

* * *

 

 

It was a dismal place they came into. Reports had shown that there was a path leading down the steep cliff to the opening of the cave, and that one could get in and out without worrying about the tide. There were steps cut into the stone, making the group worry about what else they might find in the cave’s depths. They were grateful for having been given a few days to prepare, but the young master had asked them to head out as soon as possible.

“If that poor waif and the siren are indeed one and the same,” he said, “I would prefer not to leave her to her own devices too long.”

They had to tread carefully in the dark. The stone beneath their feet was slippery, and there were many holes opening up here and there; not all of them were empty. Gurgling noises could be heard from some, and every now and then long tentacles would lash out at them if they came a little too close. They found much evidence of ships having been smashed against the cliff, with whatever cargo they hauled having floated inside the cave at high tide.

The pelagic creatures had been very unnerving – it was eerie to see such man-like creatures with a few too many features of a fish, eyes standing out from trying to see in the dark and scales covering every part of their body; there were some that looked like humanoid octopi, and others that looked eerily like deep-sea creatures with teeth too big for their mouths. But it was the drowned corpses that they controlled that sent shivers down Thorin’s spine; the bloated things stank of rotting flesh, and they seemed close to burst with every little movement. Bilbo apparently did not think better of them than the crusader and had broken down and screamed outright in fright when one did burst; he had been a little too close to the shambling thing and had gotten covered with rotting innards and flesh. It had taken a long while to calm him, their frantic hushed voices doing little to help his state of mind when they told him to quiet down before more showed up.

“I am not a necromancer,” he said in a shrill voice when Dwalin told him to man up and get back on his feet. “I do not deal with reanimated drowned bloated things that _burst_! I _fix_ things! There is a definite differ-… Oh sweet Light, there are _innards_ on my mask! _Innards_!”

“If you do not quiet down,” Dwalin growled angrily, “there will be more of those things to give you a one-way trip into the water! You might join them if it pleases you, but at least you would be clean, wouldn’t you? Well, until you come back up as one of them.”

“Let us move on,” Dís said. “The stench is too heavy here, and we need to find somewhere to set up camp. Up you get, Bilbo, we can’t stay.”

After Bilbo had spent a few whimpering minutes attempting to remove as much as possible of the drowned thrall from his person, they were able to continue. Thorin stayed close to the smaller man, mentally rebuking himself for not having been quick enough to protect him. Dís and Dwalin could handle themselves – and while he certainly knew that Bilbo could take care of himself as well, he was more inclined to feel that the small man was less sturdy than the rest of the group. But it was not the strength of his body that Thorin worried for most; the plague doctor had been on edge since they came into the Cove, and seemed close to breaking.

When they finally found a small secluded place, they huddled together around the campfire and prayed silently that nothing would be attracted by the light. For once, Dwalin did not object when Dís asked if she might place a blessing of protection on him; even the warrior was unnerved by the Cove and its inhabitants. Thorin offered to take the first watch; he could tell that his companions needed to rest. But once his cousin and sister had fallen asleep he found that Bilbo remained awake, leant against a rock and watching him. The crusader gave him a small smile.

“I suppose you do not feel tired yet?” he asked quietly. “Yet you looked exhausted when we stopped.”

“I do not feel that I could sleep here if I tried,” Bilbo answered glumly. “I have such an awful feeling of dread in this place.”

“Do you fear meeting the siren?” Thorin asked carefully, turning his gaze back to the fire.

“If she is anything like the rest, then yes,” the plague doctor stated firmly. “Don’t you?”

“I do not know.” The crusader frowned as he put another log on the fire, poking in the embers with it while he tried to put words to his thoughts. “I doubt that I have truly feared anything for many years – death least of all. Pelagic creatures do little to change that.”

“Why are you here?”

Thorin blinked at the question and turned his gaze back to the plague doctor, who stared at him with an inscrutable look on his face.

“Here as in here in the Cove?” he asked. “Or otherwise?”

“Why do you continue with this mercenary work?” Bilbo elaborated. “You could have left long ago, if you wished to – after Nori’s death, I should have thought you would want to. The young master would not have thought less of you, nor would anyone else. Why are you still here? You are a crusader – a holy warrior. You must have fought in wars before.”

“So I have, but none such as this,” Thorin answered slowly. “I am not staying because anyone asks it of me, but because I wish to. There is work to be done here, to allow the Light to regain its foothold in these lands. I will do my part.” He smiled slightly and shrugged. “It is a calling, of sorts, much like my sister’s.”

“Why did you become a crusader?” Bilbo asked, still staring at him with a carefully blank face. “There is always a reason for someone to seek the church. Dís told me of hers, of her husband and her sons. Then what is yours?”

“It is good that she sleeps – she does not like speaking of her boys,” Thorin said quietly. Bilbo only raised an eyebrow, and he sighed. “I see I cannot divert your mind. Well, to be frank, I lost someone as well. There was one whom I loved, and whom I hoped to marry. She was killed by brigands before my eyes, on the same day I had planned to ask for her hand. The Light gave me comfort and direction when everything seemed dark.” He shrugged again; though it had pained him to speak of her once, it seemed as easy now as speaking of getting a bruise. “There is not more to it than that. Fighting is something I have always been good at, and if I can fight in the name of the one thing I still believe in, I will do so until my last breath. There is nothing else for me – Dís is the only close family I have left, and Dwalin is one of only two cousins who remain. What else can I do?”

“Ever so blunt,” Bilbo mused, and at last he smiled; it was an oddly comforting sight. “But is the Light truly the one thing you still believe in?”

Thorin shook his head and returned the smile.

“There is one other,” he admitted. “But come now, you only ask questions and do not tell me anything of yourself. What about you? Why are you still here? Why did you choose to wear that mask?”

“I will make you give me a proper answer one day,” the plague doctor grumbled, fingering his mask. “But very well, I’ll let you have your diversion. I am here because I hope to improve my work, most of all. There is plenty that needs to be done about it, and I can find much to work with here.” He hesitated and fell silent for a long while. There was a far off look in his eyes when he finally spoke again. “I lost my parents when I was still quite young. My father died of the very blight I attempt to cure, and my mother followed a few years after. The more people we lost in my hometown to the sickness, the more determined I became to find a cure. What little we could do about it was not enough to stave off lasting effects, and that ensured the demise of the only family I had. I chose this path to ensure that I will not lose anyone else. Purely selfish, I am aware, but ultimately a greater good.”

They sat in silence again, listening to the crackle of the fire. Thorin thought of what the plague doctor had said; it was not such a different tale from his own, and he found that it tugged at his heart. He held out his hand, and Bilbo grasped it after a moment of hesitation.

“You will not lose any of us,” the crusader said quietly, giving his friend’s hand a firm squeeze. “I swear it.”

“If I lose you, I’ll have to take up necromancy myself,” Bilbo muttered, though he smiled faintly at the promise. “Especially if you pass before telling me what else than the Light you believe in.”

“We can’t have that, can we?” Thorin chuckled. “No, fear not – I’ll stay with you. Light knows it seems you would be lost without me.”

“As you would be without me,” Bilbo shot back. He yawned and moved away from his rock, scooting closer to the crusader before wrapping his blankets around himself and lying down. “Thank you for speaking with me for a while.”

“Get some sleep, Bilbo,” Thorin said gently. “I will still be here when you wake.”

The plague doctor smiled at him and closed his eyes, slowly drifting off to sleep. Thorin sat in silence, listening to the sound of his companions’ breathing, the crackle of the fire, and water dripping from the cave’s ceiling in the distance. He glanced at his friend, and before he could stop himself he reached out and gently trailed his fingers through Bilbo’s curly hair.

“Light knows I _would_ be lost without you,” he murmured.

 

* * *

 

 

The continued journey through the cave was much the same as it had been from the start; there was nothing to tell them that they were approaching whom they sought. It was not until they heard the sound of singing in the distance that they realised they were finally on the right track. They crept forward, wary of being tricked by the echo; Bilbo led the way now, having the sharpest ears of the group. Finally they reached two massive doors, carved out of the very rock itself, and could hear the song from beyond them. Dwalin patted the plague doctor on the shoulder and gestured for him to move back. They had their formation, and they had best keep to it – Dwalin first, followed closely by Thorin, then Bilbo and last Dís. The warrior pressed his hands against the doors and glanced at them. They nodded, and a mere moment later the doors were throws wide open.

The creature before them was more fish than human; it looked almost as though some deep-sea creature had grown arms and hair and hauled itself up on dry land. In one hand it held something that looked like a clay flute, which it immediately lifted to its malformed lips when they charged in; a shrill note sounded, and from the shadows of the far corner came one of the pelagic creatures to the defence of its mistress. The called creature raised its spear and thrust at Dwalin, who only just managed to fend the weapon off with his shield. The siren retreated further back, calling more creatures to her defence as the adventurers disposed of one after another. Every time they tried to strike her, there seemed to be another creature eager to leap into the fray to take the blow. Thorin frowned as he disposed of yet another; she had to be controlling them somehow, and it seemed the music was the key.

The next moment, as he turned again to attempt to strike at her, he froze. She was singing – it had to be her, he reasoned, but he could not be certain of where the ethereal tune came from. Gone was the hideous creature he had laid eyes upon when he entered the room; though he recognised that it must be some form of merfolk who stood in the siren’s place, it was instead a creature so fair that the mere sight tugged at his heartstrings. She was young and fair-haired, and her dark eyes sparkled as she held out her hand to him. Her voice when it sounded was like music, and when she asked him to help her he could not think of a reason to deny her – she could not stand against them alone. It was his duty to help those in need, those unjustly attacked. He leapt forward, sword raised to parry one of Dwalin’s blows.

“Have you lost your mind, Thorin?” the warrior barked angrily. “Move!”

“I will defend my queen,” the crusader answered steadily, “if so it means the end of my own life.”

He did not hold back. He fought fiercely against his comrades, forcing them back. Soon Dwalin lay stunned on the ground with Dís next to him desperately whispering her healing chant. Thorin turned his attention to Bilbo, who now stood shaking before him with one of his grenades in hand.

“You don’t want to do this,” the small man said – but his voice shook, and he sounded unsure of his own words. “Thorin, listen to me – you do not want to do this. We are your friends. Do we mean less to you than that hideous creature?”

Thorin frowned behind his visor. Hideous? He glanced over his shoulder at the siren. No, she was as fair as the sea at dawn.

“We’re three against one,” Bilbo continued. “You know that we will win eventually. Please, Thorin, don’t make me hurt you. I never want to hurt you. Please, stop this and come back to me. You swore I wouldn’t lose you, you _swore_ that to me. Will you not keep that promise?”

Thorin shook his head in an attempt to clear it. He could remember speaking with the plague doctor, could so easily remember his promise. But for some reason it seemed less important now, compared to the musical voice of the siren urging him to help her. But it was Bilbo, _his_ Bilbo, begging him to stop. He could hear Dwalin getting to his feet, Dís pleading with the warrior to wait only a moment. But his eyes remained on the plague doctor, who now shakily held the grenade up high in preparation for a throw. The crusader’s hands shook; it felt as though his blade would slip out of his grasp.

“I don’t want this,” Thorin ground out, surprised at the effort it took to speak. “Light save me, I don’t want to do this!”

Bilbo met his gaze for only a moment and nodded.

“Then I must ask you not to fight back,” he answered, and threw the grenade to the floor.

The gas had the crusader senseless on the floor within a mere moment. He could hear the clamour of his companions continuing their fight, but he couldn’t move. Bilbo still stayed by his side, aiding the vestal and the warrior however he could from that spot. One gilded sphere after another flew through the air over Thorin’s head, and he could hear laboured wheezing breaths and coughs. Finally there was the sound of a heavy body falling to the ground, dragging itself away a few feet before collapsing. A final gargling breath sounded in the cavern before a loud crack put an end to it; Dwalin or Dís must have ended the wretched creature’s life.

It didn’t take long before Bilbo had knelt down beside his friend and removed his helmet, gently lifting his head and holding a small vial of something with a strong odd scent under his nose. Thorin gasped and coughed as he began to come back to himself. His sister and cousin stood by his side now, watching him with worried eyes.

“If you say anything about a queen, I’ll have you join her,” Dís warned him, brandishing her mace. It was stained with blood, and the crusader felt a surge of pride to know that she had dealt the finishing blow. “I pray you do not force me to make good on that.”

“I’ll thank you for that,” Thorin murmured in response, giving her a faint smile. “But it won’t be necessary.”

“I should hope not,” Dwalin growled. “What on earth got into you? I almost thought you’d been possessed!”

“Her song,” Thorin said slowly as Bilbo helped him sit up. “She sang, and I…” He hesitated and glanced over at where he’d heard her gurgling breaths. There was the same hideous creature he’d seen when they entered the room. “She had me under her spell. She was fair, the fairest I’ve ever laid eyed on. And I could not let her die.”

“A good thing then that Bilbo was able to stop you,” Dís sighed, kneeling down as well to heal him. “You fool, you could have gotten yourself killed!”

“He almost did,” Bilbo said quietly, drawing the crusader’s attention. The plague doctor had removed his mask now, and he looked pale and worried. “I do not feel that I could have handled carrying your dead body out of here, Thorin.”

Thorin gave him a soft smile.

“Then be glad,” he said. “You do not have to. Thanks to you, I am still here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate the Cove. It is one of the places where stress damage is a very common problem, and goodness knows the Siren doesn't help matters. Her ability to make one of your heroes fight for her is frustrating, and when they do, they suddenly have access to abilities that you may very well not have taught them yet and that aren't even in the skillset you're using. The crusader is good at dealing fair amounts of damage, has a stun-ability and can increase his own defense - he becomes a bit of a pain sometimes. They will inevitably be released from her control, but they take stress-damage when under her control and when they escape it. Keeping the controlled hero stunned is imperative to survival.


	5. The Promise Of Safety

That any life thrived in lands that had suffered such horrors remained ever a surprise to Thorin.   
It was not long after they returned from the Cove that they were able to hear of reports from other groups sent out. Another creature created by the ancestor’s experiments had been found in the warrens – an ever growing pile of flesh and bodies of pigs, created by the failed experiments with demonic summoning. The group that had encountered the vile thing had lost three of its number before finally ending its life and the sole survivor had confined herself to the penance hall in the abbey to find closure. Dís had visited her but once, hoping to hear how the poor woman escaped on her own, but returned to her friends pale and shaken and explained that the woman’s mind was broken.   
Yet another group had made another foray into the ruins after the young master had found more troubling records of the ancestor’s business; a raving madman hid somewhere in there, a prophet and doomsayer who had survived multiple murder-attempts. He had survived the stocks, drowning, and multiple stab-wounds, only to lose his mind and gouge out his own eyes when the ancestor caved and showed him what he had unearthed. They had found him in a crumbling chapel and lost their leader when the roof caved in.   
Even in the Cove they had found other horrors; apparently the ancestor had ensured the sinking of a ship and thus the death of its crew, after he came to the realisation that hiring them for transport of goods meant they knew too much of his doings. They lived on, trapped in agony and partly fused with parts of the ship. The group that had found the drowned crew only narrowly escaped with their lives.

Rumours spread quickly that the young master planned to send a group into the lower reaches, into the very heart of what his ancestor had uncovered. It was not long before those rumours came true. In the wee hours of the morning, some left the hamlet and ventured forth. It was days before they returned; they were pale and shaking as they stumbled back into town. None of them would meet the eyes of their friends. When asked what they had faced, they wept and screamed and begged to not be sent back and to receive no more questions. At first, the remaining groups thought that the young master would be sensible and wait a little longer; but he did not. Only days passed before he sent others, demanding that they scout the lower halls yet again. Only two of these returned, blabbering and twitching and speaking of a crawling chaos that had entered their minds. Then yet another group went and eventually returned in the same state.

In light of the new challenges, Thorin had taken to spending more and more time at the abbey again, head bowed in prayer for the sake of those who still ventured out into the lands – and for his own friends and loved ones, in case they would be sent out once more. He visited Nori’s grave as often as he was able to remind himself of how easily someone could be lost to the creatures that waited. Bilbo was often there, kneeling in the dirt by the grave with his hands clasped in silent prayer. There was an uneasiness resting over the hamlet that would not release them, not even in their sleep.

So came at last the day when the crusader and his companions were asked to venture into the lower halls. With the memory of the previous groups all too fresh in their minds, they begged leave to stay in the hamlet, or to see if they could not properly uproot the evils in the other areas instead. But the master would not budge.

“This is what I hired you all for,” he told them sternly. “While I do not doubt the skill of the others, it is you four that I would send. I feel that this must be the last time. This will be the deciding blow – either you succeed and the estate is again in my family’s keep, or you fail and we must all leave and let the wilderness claim this town. I will reward you handsomely, for so I promised when I hired you.” He looked at them almost with pity in his eyes, something soft akin to fondness. “This will be the last time I ever ask anything of you. Will you honour your contracts with me, or must I send you away?”

They did not argue further. There was nothing more to be said; this was indeed why he had originally hired them, and if they wished to remain people of their word, they would have to honour their contracts.

 

* * *

 

 

Thorin lay awake in his bed, staring at the ceiling. He could find no rest. In the morning, it would be time for them to set out again; he had seen what reports the other groups had been able to leave, and none of what he read there was comforting. Even his evening prayers had done nothing to soothe his mind; it was as though the Light knew what they would face and had found it could do nothing. The others, he knew, were just as restless. It had been a day of solitude, spent attempting to find what comfort they could. Dwalin had tended to his armour and weapons and spoke not a single word. Dís had confined herself in the abbey, hoping to find strength in her faith. Bilbo had not been seen anywhere, though the crusader assumed he hid in his room and worked. Thorin himself had simply wandered through the hamlet and its surrounding areas, imprinting the sight of it into his memory. He visited Nori’s grave again, visited the abbey for his prayers, tended to his sword and his armour. Whatever lay in wait, it felt as though it knew they would be coming.

A faint knock broke him out of his reveries; had it not been for the silence of the night, he would not have heard it. Only reluctantly did he get out of his bed and pad over to the door; as he grasped the handle, he told himself that he would shut the door in the face of whoever was beyond if it had anything to do with the young master. But as he opened it he instead blinked in surprise to find Bilbo standing there, pack in one hand and a candle in the other. The plague doctor was in naught but his nightclothes and had his robes and his mask under his arm.

“I can’t sleep,” Bilbo said quietly. “Could I stay here tonight?”

Wordlessly, Thorin stepped aside to let him in, closing the door behind him. Bilbo placed the little candle on the table, put his pack in a corner and placed his robes on top of it.

“I would have thought you’d wish to be alone,” Thorin said. “Is something wrong?”

“Solitude does not suit me today,” Bilbo answered with a shudder. “I tried to work, but could only think that my tonics and mixtures might not be effective against what we’re to face. I tried to read the reports, but only imagined all of us dying one after the other.” He took a deep breath and turned to the crusader, eyes wide and face pale. “I do not want to be alone, Thorin – not tonight. I only… I need to know that you are here, safe and hale still. And as long as I am in another room, it feels as though I will find you dead in the morning, and then I shall surely lose my mind.”

The crusader stepped forward and pulled him into a tight embrace; he could not think to offer any comfort, not when the same thoughts had flown through his own mind all day. Light only knew that he had stopped himself from going to find the plague doctor several times, not wanting to disturb him if he wished to be alone. Bilbo clung to him, like a drowning man would cling to whatever would keep him afloat, and would not stop shaking.

“Whatever we face, we face together,” Thorin told him quietly. “I swore I would not leave you, and I do not intend to do so now.”

Bilbo gave a shrill laugh and shook his head.

“Then what if we are both to die?” he asked. “Then I still lose you and cannot follow you.”

“At the very least, we die together,” Thorin stated firmly. “The Light will protect us – you will not lose me.”

The plague doctor pulled back for a moment, giving his friend a searching look. He seemed uncertain, though whether it was for what Thorin had said or something else was difficult to tell.

“I have no right to ask anything of you,” Bilbo said slowly. “Nor do I expect you to simply agree with my request. But I feel that I will regret it if either of us are to die and I never said anything, and if you do not agree I will not ask again and will leave you be.” He took a deep breath as though to steel himself. “May I kiss you?”

Thorin froze. He could feel his cheeks heating and knew that his face must be beet red. He opened his mouth and closed it again. He couldn’t think of an argument as to why he oughtn’t to grant this one request; the teachings of the Light spun in his head, and he remembered being taught that this was wrong, that any and all intimate relations should be between a man and a woman bound together in matrimony. But upon searching his soul rather than his mind for an answer, he could not find a negative response. The longer he remained silent, the more Bilbo looked uncertain and almost frightened.

“Why?” the crusader finally blurted out. “Forgive me, but why would you wish to ask this of me?”

“Perhaps I am not what the Light would consider pure,” Bilbo said glumly, turning his face away. “You could say that it is a way for me to find some comfort, to at the very least convince myself that I am still alive and hale. But most of all, I feel I would regret it if I never so much as asked. And I feel that you understand me and would not think worse of me for my, ah, inclinations.” He gave a short rueful laugh. “If I am wrong in that, I suppose I may have overstayed my welcome.”

He began to step back, but Thorin’s hold on him did not loosen. Keeping one arm around Bilbo’s waist, the crusader lifted one hand to his cheek to turn his head and meet his gaze.

“I told you,” he said quietly. “I do not say no. But why _me_?”

“Because you comfort me,” Bilbo answered, giving him yet another searching look. “Because you make me feel safe. Do I need any other reason?”

It had been many years since Thorin last kissed anyone, and he worried briefly that he would be clumsy. But he pushed such thoughts away and said nothing as he leant in close and pressed his lips to Bilbo’s; what would it matter if he was clumsy? The smaller man’s fingers tangled in his hair, tugging at the strands that caught on them. For that short moment, the crusader felt safe and grounded, as though nothing in the world could hurt him – there was nothing to fear. Then Bilbo broke the kiss and leant his head against the taller man’s shoulder.

“Forgive me,” he mumbled. “I know the Light’s teachings. I should not make you challenge your own faith.”

“I already told you that there is one other thing I have faith in,” Thorin answered. A part of him was livid, but a considerably larger part of his mind was eerily calm and at peace. Whether the Light was displeased at his actions or not, he would not find out yet; and he found that it mattered little in comparison to his companion feeling safe. “You needn’t fret on my behalf.”

“You never told me what else you believe in,” Bilbo reminded him, and the crusader could tell that he was smiling despite being unable to see his face. “It must be something grand if it stands above the Light.”

“Nothing stands above the Light.” Thorin closed his eyes and lifted one hand to rest against the back of Bilbo’s head. “I would perhaps not call it grand, but it calms me and makes me feel secure all the same. It is a reminder that one mustn’t be a grand warrior or a champion of the Light to make a difference in the world.”

Bilbo asked no more. Soon he allowed the crusader to lead him to bed; it was a little small for two people, but close quarters bothered them little. Thorin held the plague doctor close, humming under his breath until the small man’s breathing evened out.

“Light protect you,” Thorin murmured as he closed his eyes. “And may it protect us all.”

 

* * *

 

 

The halls paced out by the previous groups were empty. There was not a sound to be heard aside from the occasional dripping of water off in the distance, creating an eerie echo in the massive tunnels. They moved quietly and dared not to speak for fear of something lurking in the shadows. Even the light from the torch seemed more dim than usual, as though the darkness resented being disturbed and hoped to snuff out the flame. Whenever they stopped to rest, Thorin and Dís whispered their prayers to the Light, hoping to strengthen whatever protection it may have placed upon them.

There had been no farewell this time, no one to wish them good luck. They had left the hamlet before anyone had roused – a bleary-eyed, silent, and solemn group marching towards what might well be their doom. They had followed what directions they’d been given – along the road through the Weald, up the hill towards the mansion. There had been nothing of note along the way. The lands seemed to sleep as they went, almost aware of what mission they were on.

The tunnel they were in could not have been man-made; it was entirely straight and had perfectly smooth walls, almost glass-like to the touch. It widened the further they went. At last the walls around them disappeared, and the echoes told them that they were in a gigantic hall. After a little bit of groping about, they found at last a low channel carved into the floor; it was filled with some form of black powder. The scent told them precisely what it was, and within a mere moment Dwalin shoved the torch into it. It caught flame immediately, and it spread quickly along the gores in the floor until they hit two fire pits at the very end of the hall. The light revealed to them a door of enormous size with strange carvings on it.

“Here we are then,” Dwalin muttered. “That must be it.”

“Can we be certain?” Dís asked quietly. “Perhaps the hallway continues beyond it?”

“I doubt we would find a hall such as this if it were not the end,” the warrior stated grimly. “We’re here.”

“I would rather _not_ be here,” Bilbo stated weakly. “It feels like we’re being watched – but there is nothing to see anywhere, not a single living creature.”

“Whatever is beyond those doors knows we are here,” Thorin said. He felt on edge, and he knew precisely what Bilbo meant; since the moment they had entered the tunnels, the atmosphere felt different. Their every step was watched – something had known that they would come. “It is waiting for us.”

They fell silent again, regarding the gates with fearful solemnity. There was no turning back now, not without dishonour and curses upon their names. The young master had chosen them for this task; all his faith rested upon their shoulders. Finally, Dwalin turned and gestured for his companions to come close. He regarded them with a grave look on his face as he spoke:

“We have seen creatures no ordinary man can imagine, and we have defeated them. We have honed our skills in our journeys here, to near perfection. Whatever awaits us, we will face it together. Whatever we face, we will defeat it. Whatever happens, we will not leave each other.” He lifted his right hand, clenched to a fist, and pressed it against his chest in a salute as the ghost of a smile passed over his face. “I am proud to have fought with you. I am glad to have known you all, kin or no. And Light knows I love you all and will give my life for you if I must.”

“If you mean to say farewell, then I will have none of it,” Dís snapped; there was fire in her eyes and determination in her voice. “We will make it out of here alive – all of us. We will leave this place together, and all evil shall shudder to know that we have faced the greatest of their number and defeated it.”

“You seem certain enough,” Thorin said softly, smiling at his sister. “But I will say as Dwalin, that I am proud to have fought with you all and to have known you. Whether we make it out of here or not, my heart goes with you.”

“I fear I have no grand words to say,” Bilbo muttered. “But I wish you all luck and will pray for your safety, if the Light will hear me in this vile place.”

 

* * *

 

 

They were weary and frightened; the creature had finally taken form, after taunting them in what seemed to be the shape of the young master’s ancestor. A vessel for the heart itself, the ancestor was no longer human. And once his body warped and faded away, the creature roused and revealed itself – a beating heart for its body, black tumour-like eyes, an impossibly large mouth with sharp teeth, and thin skeletal arms. Thorin could hear Bilbo whimpering behind him when it took shape, and he thought he fared no better himself. This was what they had come to destroy – the heart of the world itself, as the ancestor had claimed it to be, the source of the land’s corruption. Still they fought on, forcing their limbs to move. But it was faster than they, striking them before they could avoid any blows. The wounds they were able to give it were few and seemed to have little effect. It was only when one of Bilbo’s grenades struck home that something finally happened. The creature let out a deafening shriek, loud enough to cause them a head-splitting pain. A viscous green liquid spewed from its mouth, and they had no time to move away from it before it struck them; the moment it did, they realised that they could no longer move. It was as though invisible hands held them in place, though they struggled violently to break free. A voice sounded in Thorin’s head suddenly, and his struggles ceased.

“ _Choose_ ,” it said coolly. “ _Choose one. One of you will come unto your maker and face the beyond. Choose._ ”

As suddenly as they had been frozen in place, they were able to move once more. Thorin quickly turned to look at his companions; the looks on their faces confirmed his fear, that they had heard the voice too. And they knew what it meant – be trapped there forever, or choose one as a sacrifice.

“Not a one of you are going,” Thorin barked angrily. “If any of you say-“

“Well, it will not be you,” Bilbo interrupted sharply. “If you believe that I will let you-“

“It will be me.” Dís stepped forward. There was a look of grim determination on her face, though her eyes were filled with a deep sadness. “It will be me, Thorin, not you, though you may wish it.” She gave him a shaky smile. “My boys are waiting for me. I can almost hear them. And I will see you again soon. I shall send mother and father and Frerin your love, I promise.” She drew herself up to her full height, though she shook as she did so, and closed the distance between them to kiss her brother’s cheek. “All my love goes with you, brother.”

Before her companions could stop her, she rushed towards the creature with her mace held high and glowing with holy power. But before she could land a blow on the heart, it reached out and lifted her high into the air; the mouth opened wide and she was dropped into it. She screamed, calling her brother’s name, and so she was gone. But her scream rang in Thorin’s ears, and he knew he had to be screaming too when he raced forward, closely followed by his friends.

Blow after blow landed, but seemed yet again to do no good. The crusader fought as a man possessed, desperate in his fury to claim vengeance for his sister. His friends could scarcely keep up in their attempts to aid him and protect him; even Dwalin, skilled though he was, found himself hard pressed to keep Thorin somewhat unscathed. They no longer had anyone able to heal their wounds, and they could not afford losing him. At last, as Thorin landed a powerful strike upon the heart’s underside, it happened once more; they were frozen in place and the heart spoke, again ordering them to choose one of their number. The three looked at each other.

“Please don’t,” Bilbo blurted out. “I know what you are thinking, Thorin, and I beg of you, please don’t.”

“He won’t,” Dwalin rumbled, “because I will.” He held up his hand as Thorin began to object and shook his head. “Don’t be ridiculous, Thorin, if you can help it. It will not be you, and you have known that all along. Besides, Dís would find a way to kill me from beyond the grave if I allowed you to follow her.” He gave Bilbo a small smile. “Look after him for me, little man. If this is the adventure he stumbled upon in my absence, I’d hate to think what he’d get up to without you around.” He glanced over his shoulder towards the gates with a wistful look on his face. “I’ll admit, seeing my brother again would have done me good. Do me a favour, cousin, and tell him where I’ve gone this time. He’ll need to know, I’m sure.”

He didn’t even have time to move. Skeletal hands grabbed hold of him, and he allowed himself to be lifted into the air without struggling. Thorin could see him close his eyes, as if hoping to avoid staring into the gaping maw he would be dangling over in but a moment. And the crusader could only stand there, hopelessness filling his heart, unable to even scream as he watched his cousin vanish from the known world.

Another screech left the creature; though it was deafening and the pain it caused him nearly forced Thorin down on his knees, he thought to himself that it sounded almost triumphant. A dull thud behind him told him that Bilbo had not been so lucky; he glanced over his head and saw the plague doctor senseless on the ground, stunned by the shriek. Taking a deep breath, Thorin steeled himself. He reached up and pulled off his helmet, throwing it aside.

“You took the young master’s ancestor,” he said quietly. “You took these lands and corrupted them. You have taken the minds of whosoever was sent into these damned halls, and now you have taken the only family I have left in this world. And you will not stop, will you? You will take and take and take, until there is nothing left but your own bloated body – and then you will devour yourself in your gluttony.” He raised his sword and shifted his stance. “I swore I would not leave him, and I intend to keep that promise. Be you a deity of your own right or a demon, you will not take me from him or him from me.”

He did not know if the creature could truly hear him or even show emotion, but whether it was a trick of the light or truth, it looked almost as if it grinned unrepentantly at him; its arms were spread wide, almost daring him to come closer. Thorin weighed his chances in his mind and considered carefully where it would be best to strike. It would be difficult no matter what he tried – but the underside would, after all, be easier to reach. And there, at least, the creature would be unable to reach for him.

He raced forward. The creature reached immediately for him, grasping hands clawing at thin air when he ducked under them. He had barely taken three more steps when he felt a grip, hard as stone, around his ankle. Upon glancing behind him, he saw one of the clawed hands grasping it and felt it tug him backwards, attempting to lift him into the air. He cried out, frustration and fear clutching at his heart – he only had one chance, and it had been wasted at last. He swung at the arm, missing it by a hair, and swore loudly.

“Release me, damn you,” he cried. “Release me! I swore I would not leave him!”

“Then don’t.”

The voice, though shrill and tight with fear, warmed him like the sun when it sounded. He turned his head to see Bilbo stumbling towards him; his mask was gone, and though his eyes were wide and fearful he did not slow his pace. In his hands there was the glint of metal – his knife. The plague doctor leapt forward, grabbed hold of the creature’s arm and sank his knife into its flesh; it made no sound at the pain that it must have felt, but the hand’s hold on Thorin’s ankle loosened enough for the crusader to pull free.

“Don’t stand there gaping like a fool,” Bilbo shrieked. “Go on! Hurry!”

Thorin flashed him a grin and turned to continue his charge. He picked up his pace, knowing now that his friend was in harm’s way and would not in any way benefit if he took his time.

The moment his sword sank into the soft underbelly of the heart, it was as though the universe itself had shifted. The crusader suddenly felt off balance, shaken to his core, as the creature let out a wild guttural cry of agony. He realised in a distant corner of his mind that there was no blood on his blade, no blood gushing from the wound. It took a few moments as he backed away, withdrawing his blade from the creature’s body, for him to notice that it was not the only one screaming; Thorin’s own lungs and throat burned, and yet he couldn’t seem to stop. Images flashed through his mind; the girl he had loved, his little brother, his parents – all dead, all rotten and buried deep underground, reaching desperately for the surface and calling his name. His sister, his darling little sister, and her husband and sons, wrapping their arms around him and begging him to help them, to take them away from the cold darkness that enveloped them. Dwalin, wildly accusing him of standing by like a fool, of letting him die when there was no Light waiting to embrace him.

He could hear Bilbo’s scream from not too far away, and it momentarily broke him out of his stupor. Bilbo, he had to help Bilbo, he couldn’t leave him, had sworn that he would not do so. Without a second thought, he sheathed his sword and turned to run. A rumbling noise sounded, and somewhere behind him rocks began to fall to the floor. The plague doctor was kneeling on the floor with his face buried in his hands; he looked as though he had tried to claw his own skin off. Stopping only for as long as he had to, Thorin scooped the smaller man up into his arms and took off again, holding Bilbo tightly as he ran out through the gates.

The heart’s scream followed them. The cavern rumbled as the ceiling began to cave in. They were barely halfway through the hall when the falling dust and rubble put the fires out, making the crusader stumble on in blind darkness; though he could not even see the floor, or even Bilbo in his arms, he was afraid to stop moving. Though he was sure he never stopped moving and never turned back towards the hall, he could still hear the agonised scream close behind him.

He didn’t know how long he kept running; his legs felt as though they would give out at any moment, yet he pushed himself to go further, as far away from the black pit as he could get. At last there was a glint of light in the distance, so faint that he thought he must be imagining it in his madness. But the closer it got, the more he grew certain of that it was daylight he could see, the sun shining through a broken door.

“Just a little further,” he gasped. “Bilbo, Bilbo, look, can you see the sunlight? Just a little further and we will be safe, I promise you, we are almost there!”

There were stairs leading up to the door; he could not remember there being any stairs when they had entered the tunnels, he must have taken another way back. But there was much that he suddenly found that he couldn’t quite remember in his dazed state. All he knew as he finally stumbled into the charred remains of the mansion and stared up at the sunlit sky through the broken roof was that they had prevailed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of the end.  
> The Heart of Darkness, the final boss of the game, is a bit tricky in that it has the ability Come Unto Your Maker; it forces you to choose one character to sacrifice. It does this twice, at 2/3 health and at 1/3 health, and the easiest way to deal with this is to first sacrifice the healer - because you still need to do a LOT of damage - and then whoever has taken most stress-damage.  
> There IS an achievement for the game called Everybody Lives, i.e. the entire group survives the fight. It is nearly impossible to achieve, and so far there has only been one documented instance of this - and the game has already been out for almost a year, not counting the Early Access feature on Steam.


	6. Clarity In Madness

Having made his way back to his home once more, Thorin felt oddly resigned as he stared up at the spires of the abbey. He had thought of what his next step would be during the entire journey; he had little wish to see another holy war, if there ever was another. But if the Light called for its champions, he would have to answer. Though it went against his judgement as a crusader, only one path remained clear for him.

Returning to the hamlet had been chaotic. Thorin remembered nothing of the first few days, but had returned to his senses in the abbey with the sudden feeling of being hopelessly alone. When he asked those who still remained to root out the last of the evils of the lands, they seemed surprised that he did not remember anything. The young master explained to him soon enough that Bilbo had left the day prior, exhausted after their ordeal and refusing to stay for another moment. This had sent the crusader into another bout of panic and had him frantically searching the residence and the rest of the hamlet while praying that this piece of news was but lies. But he couldn’t find a trace of his companion. Eventually he found himself forced to accept fact; on the same day he did so, he ended his contract with the young master and left, aimlessly wandering the lands until he made his way home.

It had been a long time since he last visited this abbey, even before his employment. There had simply not been a reason to return to his hometown, or to his teacher. But now he trudged along the path towards the doors of the building whilst thinking carefully of what he had to say. If he were lucky, he might not even have to speak to the priest who had trained him all those years ago; for all he knew, the man could well be dead.

And yet there he was, grey-haired and smiling as Thorin at last entered the abbey. The man seemed surprisingly pleased to see him.

“It has been far too long,” the man said warmly. “I must say, it does my heart good to see you again.”

“I am not staying,” Thorin said quickly, deftly stepping out of reach from the older man’s open arms. The warm fatherly welcome felt wrong; only being in the abbey felt wrong. “I fear I’ve only come for one thing.”

The priest eyed him curiously. The crusader took a deep breath before reaching up to his neck; hidden under his tabard and under his armour, always close to his heart, he wore his holy symbol in its chain. He had not worn it often during the journeys around his employer’s lands, for fear of losing it. And now came the feeling of not wanting to wear it at all. He pulled the chain over his head and held the symbol out.

“I’ve come to return this,” he stated. “I no longer have a wish to wear it.”

“You are leaving the church, then?” the priest asked with narrowed eyes. His voice sounded sharp and cold, much as it often had when Thorin was still in training. “Might I ask why?”

“Recent developments have led me to believe that it is not right for me anymore,” Thorin answered steadily. “Even if I should wish to remain, I could not. All I have seen has told me that much of what I was taught is falsehood, and I cannot stand by it.”

The priest was silent for a long while. For some reason, the crusader quickly grew to find the silence aggravating, as though he were to be judged for being faithless.

“Well?” he asked sharply. “Have you anything to say? Will you not take the symbol?”

“Have you fallen so far that you no longer see the Light?” the priest retorted. “What have you seen, to make you so cynical?”

“What I have seen does not matter,” Thorin snapped. “What matters is that while the Light can certainly be soothing enough to hear of, it is nothing more than hearsay at this rate. No prayers will reach it; no amount of belief can make its teachings entirely right.” He took a deep breath before dropping the symbol on the floor. It was disrespectful, he knew that very well, but oddly fitting. “The Light has left us, and I cannot see it anymore. I am not certain that I ever could.”

“The Light is everywhere, Thorin,” the priest answered, “and it is in all hearts. Do you doubt this, though you spent so many years as its champion?”

Thorin laughed; it sounded high and hysterical to his own ears, fitting closely with the images that flitted through his mind of the nightmare he had lived through.

“I have seen the very heart of the world,” he said. “I have stood in its presence as it devoured my sister and my cousin, and I have seen that it devoured the Light many ages ago. Nothing but darkness remains. The only thing in this world to have proven itself worthy of faith is the very person I have to thank for my life.”

 

* * *

 

 

Three years of wandering. Three years on the road, taking short mercenary missions where he could to earn money for food or a few nights at an inn. Three years of waking in the night in a cold sweat and with Bilbo’s name on his lips and his heart racing in a panic. He’d thought that perhaps time would give him closure, would heal what wounds there were in his mind. The nightmares still came to him often; not every night, but near enough, as though to remind him that he had nowhere to go any longer. Once he would have stayed at the abbey and allowed his faith to fuel his determination, but no more. He said his evening prayers out of habit, but the words felt hollow without his conviction to back them up.

The nights seemed darker than they used to, without any comfort in them. He dreaded the dark hours, and feared constantly that he would wake to the screams he had heard in the mansion’s lower reaches.

He visited Balin once, staying only as long as he needed to explain what had happened and why Dwalin would not come home again. His cousin had wept, but had not blamed him or anyone else. Dwalin had made his own choice, he said, and at the very least Thorin had escaped alive. The crusader found that he could not think as kindly of himself as Balin apparently could; after all, if he had given himself to the creature, Dwalin could well have made it back.

Little by little, as though led by some unseen force, he began to make his way westwards. He had travelled almost everywhere but in that direction, and felt now that he needed to see what he could find there. The lands he found were simple orchards and tilled fields, small towns with people who seemed to have little idea of what lay beyond their homes. They never asked where he came from if he chose to stay at an inn – and they hardly ever asked anything at all of him, suspicious as they seemed of strangers. But he kept to himself and did not bother them. He had enough in his pocket for the time being, enough to make do.

So came one rainy day when he came to a town that seemed only a little more busy than the rest; still a town of farmers and simple folk, but where businesses thrived and people were not so wary of strangers. He passed a graveyard on the way into town, noting glumly that it must have been a place ravaged by sickness, judging by the amount of unblemished grave markers. But no one in the town seemed to be ailed by anything worse than old age – which was unusual in itself. On instinct, he asked a local merchant how this came to be, and if perhaps they had enjoyed the visit of a plague doctor on a journey. The merchant laughed at his question and explained that there was indeed one in the town – but not on a journey.

“He is born and raised here,” the merchant explained brightly. “But he travelled for some years and came back only two years ago, very close-mouthed about where he’s been. If you are ailed by anything, my friend, I would suggest that you visit him – he lives just down the street, only house without a garden.”

It was easy enough to find the house. Though it looked almost in pristine condition on the outside, the crusader wondered if he wouldn’t find another disaster-area if he was allowed inside. He took a deep breath as he approached the door, but it opened before he could so much as lift his hand to knock. Bilbo stood there in the doorway, clad in his tattered green robes and holding his mask in his hand, smiling tentatively up at him. The plague doctor held out his hand in a silent invitation, and the crusader took it and allowed himself to be led inside. He wondered if he ought to say something, if he shouldn’t ask how his friend had been – but he couldn’t find the words. Bilbo simply led him to the kitchen and made him sit down by the fire, and Thorin watched as the small man bustled about to make him some tea. Still neither of them spoke. It felt somehow superfluous with words, when one of them had clearly been waiting for the other who had been searching. It was not until Bilbo stood by the hearth with his back to the crusader that Thorin suddenly got to his feet, stepped around the table and wrapped his arms around the plague doctor. Bilbo froze for a moment, but relaxed into the embrace little by little.

“It took you three years,” he murmured. “I wondered if I’d ever see you again.”

“I had a few things to settle first,” Thorin admitted as he buried his face in the smaller man’s hair. “Forgive me. I should have been faster.”

“I should not have left without a word,” Bilbo sighed. “Not without knowing if you were broken or not.”

“I am,” the crusader mumbled. “There is a void in me that I cannot think of how to fill. Everything I thought I knew has been taken away or proven falsehood.” He closed his eyes and exhaled forcefully. “I visited the abbey in my hometown, and spoke with the priest who trained me. I returned my holy symbol.”

“You left the church?” Bilbo did not sound surprised, merely puzzled; he lifted his hand and placed it on Thorin’s arm. “I thought the Light was all you had.”

“There were two things I believed in,” Thorin answered, smiling faintly. “One of them forced me to snap out of a state that would have had me buried deep below the earth in a place no one could ever reach again.” He tightened his hold on Bilbo. “And while the Light is gone, I still have the one who saved me. I still have you, do I not?”

There was no answer. There was no need for one. Bilbo only turned in his grasp, wrapped his arms around him and held on tightly.

 

* * *

 

 

Peace would not settle immediately over the house; the memories of their adventures together were still not spoken of, like an open festering wound that neither dared to so much as touch. But the days passed slowly, and they eased into a comfortable routine together. Bilbo still had his work and took care of the townsfolk, and Thorin soon found work as a blacksmith; the plague doctor had been surprised to find out that this had been the crusader’s previous occupation, many long years ago, but seemed more pleased to know that he would not be idle. Where Thorin had at first wondered if he was truly welcome, he found soon that he was more than wanted. Every morning when he left to go to the smithy, Bilbo would get tense and ask that he leave his pack, even if he did not have it slung over his shoulder. And once he would return as evening came, the small man would relax again and welcome him home.

_Home_. He had not thought of any other place than the town where he grew up as home before, and yet it seemed so logical that this would be it. Though he still woke in the night from horrific dreams, it was soothing to know that Bilbo was nearby. There were nights sometimes when he woke to find the plague doctor knocking on his door, asking if he could come in; the small man was always pale and tense on those nights, and they shared the crusader’s bed without any questions being asked. There was no need to recount what horrors visited them in their sleep.

But little by little, Thorin’s dreams grew worse again. His mind seemed incapable of accepting that it could heal, that it could grow accustomed once more to peace. It soon came to be that he woke every night in a cold sweat, shaking and gasping for air, with only vague memories of feeling hunted or as a man drowning. His evening prayers did nothing to soothe him anymore, and he buried himself in work during the day to exhaust himself. Bilbo grew worried for him and pleaded with him to take rest when he would need it – preferably before his body gave out. But the crusader paid little heed to his companion’s words; he was still hale and strong, after all, and it was better to keep busy and focus on work than to be idle and think of nothing else than his nightmares.

 

* * *

 

 

He was searching for something, though he was unsure of what it was. He had no memory of reaching or entering the tunnel he was in, but Thorin moved along all the same with his sword in hand while he tried to think of what had happened. It was dark, but everything seemed to be lit with an eerie glow that gave just enough light to navigate by. He thought a little of catacombs he had seen during his travels once, but wondered how he had gone from Bilbo’s house to there without remembering the journey.

Bilbo. Where on earth was Bilbo?

“Over here,” a voice called, as though to answer his thought. “Come here, Thorin.”

The voice was familiar enough to make him quicken his pace. It had to be Bilbo calling to him. He rounded a corner, frowning when he couldn’t see anyone.

“Where are you?” he called. “Bilbo? Where have you gone?”

“This way,” the plague doctor’s voice answered in the distance. “Hurry!”

Soon enough the crusader was running through the seemingly endless tunnel. He called for his friend and heard every time the voice answering just a little ways off. But he couldn’t seem to catch up, and he never heard any footsteps aside from his own. Finally he reached the end; two massive stone doors barred his way forward, so much like the ones he had seen at the end of the tunnel below the mansion that he balked at the thought of entering.

“Bilbo,” he called again, his voice sounding ever so weak despite the echo in the cavern. “Bilbo, where are you?”

“In here,” came Bilbo’s muffled voice from behind the door. “In here, Thorin.”

He hesitated. Why would Bilbo have gone in here? Surely he would be as frightened as Thorin felt; surely he would not dare to pass these gates? But the longer he waited, the more insistent the voice became. He had to at least go and see.

The doors should be heavy, he reasoned, but were as easy to open as though they had been made of air. The room beyond was dark; there was light only at the very end of it, set in a circle. He moved slowly across the floor, wincing every time his boot hit a stone and sent it flying. The closer he came to the circle of lights, the more he realised that it was more than that; there was a pit, a hole in the floor, that they were meant to light up. He paused briefly before the pit. Bilbo had stopped calling out to him. The room was eerily silent. He glanced around, trying to see if there was anything else of note in the room, or even another door. But nothing could be seen beyond the circle of light. He took a deep breath and stepped into the circle, cautiously peeking over the edge.

There were bloodstained spikes at the bottom, and the pit was littered with skeletons. Lying in the very middle, having slid all the way down to the bottom, was Bilbo – impaled on several spikes. His heart had been torn from his chest and his stomach had been split open. Blood still seeped from the corner of his mouth, and his wide eyes were bloodshot and bulging out of their sockets.

Thorin opened his mouth and screamed, a despairing wail that he could not stop. He still screamed when he woke.

His eyes snapped open. His throat felt raw and his lungs screamed for air. But there was a hand on his shoulder and a gentle voice beside him that slowly called him back to reality.

“Come now, Thorin, look at me,” Bilbo said firmly. “Look at me. It was a dream, just a nightmare. Whatever you saw can’t hurt you. Look at me, Thorin, I’m right here.”

The crusader shook violently as the scream finally died away. A dream, only a dream, and Bilbo was safe and not hurt. Those words repeated themselves over and over in his mind, though they did nothing to calm his rapid heartbeat. Swift as a snake he reached out, before Bilbo could react, and took a firm hold of the plague doctor’s arm and waist; he pulled him down, ignoring the yelp of surprise this elicited from his friend, and crushed their lips together in a bruising kiss. Bilbo made a muffled sound of protest and pushed against Thorin’s chest in an attempt to break the kiss and move away, but the crusader did not loosen his hold.

“What’s gotten into you?” Bilbo gasped when he was finally allowed to turn his head, though Thorin moved instead to suck bruises into his neck. “Let go! For goodness’ sake, Thorin, let go!”

“I need you,” Thorin breathed. “Please, please, I need you, you have to help me…” Bilbo squirmed in his grasp but could not break away. In a swift movement, Thorin pulled him properly onto the bed and rolled them over, using his weight to pin the plague doctor down. “I need you, I need to know, to _feel_ that you are safe, that you are here.”

Bilbo’s eyes widened; he seemed to understand what Thorin was trying to say, but did not stop struggling.

“You’re hurting me,” he cried. “If you would just listen for- oh, _move_ , you fool! I can barely breathe!”

Thorin froze for a moment as the words registered in his mind. He didn’t want to hurt him, never wanted that. With very careful movements he shifted his weight so that it was not all resting on the smaller man, but he was equally careful to not give the chance of escape.

“Please, Bilbo,” he pleaded. “It is not enough to see you or hear your voice. You said to me once that you sometimes do this to convince yourself that you are alive and well.” He shifted again, rolling his hips against Bilbo’s; though it had been many years since he had done anything akin to this, never since he was only a smith’s apprentice, the surprised gasp this action drew from the smaller man still lit a fire in him. “Was this not what you wanted, when you came to me then?”

“I did not want to challenge your faith,” Bilbo argued. His struggles had stilled, but his eyes were still wide and darted to and fro as he tried to figure out how to get away. “It would have been unfair of me, to put the weight of my own burdens on you.”

“Is it not unfair of you to leave me now?” Thorin asked quietly. “You came to me with but one request, though another was in your mind. And now you will refuse me this?”

“Can you hear yourself?” the plague doctor snapped. “Do you know what you sound like? I came to you with a single request – which you granted, out of your own free will! And I _said_ that I would not ask again and leave you be if you denied me! How is this fair, what you are trying to do to me?” He gasped again as Thorin ground their hips together; the crusader couldn’t help but smile somewhat as Bilbo’s own arousal made itself known. “You, you loved someone once, did you not? Would you have done this to her?”

“I did, once,” Thorin answered. “I did, and she had no objections. Perhaps it meant then that I was a sinner, but now…” He tugged at Bilbo’s nightshirt, pushing it up as far as it would go without the small man’s aid. “The Light is gone, and you are all I have left. I beg of you, do not abandon me now, not when I need you most.”

Still the plague doctor hesitated, and still the crusader pleaded; the dream was still fresh in his mind, the images shown to him by his own treacherous mind enough to convince him that he’d at any moment wake up and find his life to be another nightmare. He ran his hands over what skin he could reach, nipped at Bilbo’s throat and lips, and relished in the groans and shudders this produced. He ground their hips together, feeling Bilbo’s hips rise to meet his. He trailed one hand down over the plague doctor’s soft stomach and cupped it over his groin, and as he did so Bilbo seemed to snap. Suddenly fingers tangled in Thorin’s hair and tugged him down for a bruising kiss; the crusader groaned, the mix of pain and pleasure sending tingles down his spine.

Soon enough, their nightclothes and smallclothes lay forgotten on the floor and their moans reverberated in the room. Thorin pressed open-mouthed kisses to Bilbo’s neck and chest and stomach, wherever he could reach, as though hoping to devour the small man whole. Bilbo’s hand on his cock felt glorious, though the plague doctor was rough with him; yet he did not object, only took what pain and pleasure he could be given and prayed that he would lose himself in it. Bilbo’s moans when the crusader moved down to take his cock into his mouth were music to his ears. He suckled, pressed his tongue against Bilbo’s cock and bobbed his head up and down; though he had never done this before, it seemed he was at least not doing anything wrong. The small man’s hands were in his hair again, winding long locks around his fingers and tugging at them, treating them almost as reins. Every long moan this pulled from Thorin made Bilbo roll his hips again and again, almost making the crusader gag. A harder tug than the others made him lift his head; he suckled long and hard on the head of Bilbo’s cock before releasing it with a wet pop.

“Need you,” he breathed as he allowed himself to be pulled back up for another kiss. “Bilbo, my Bilbo, I need you…”

“Ever so demanding.” Bilbo practically purred as he spoke, though a nagging part of Thorin’s mind questioned if he merely imagined it. Before he could answer, however, the plague doctor suddenly pushed against him and rolled them over. He forced the crusader to spread his legs. “And if I am _your Bilbo_ , then what are you?”

“Yours,” Thorin choked out in response as Bilbo rolled his hips. “I am yours.”

“Then I must ask something of you.” The purr was gone from Bilbo’s voice, and it now sounded harsh and angry; yet he still leant close and pressed their groins together and tangled his fingers in his partner’s hair again. “From now on, if I tell you not to do something, you will not do it. Do you understand? If I am truly the only thing remaining in this world that you have any faith in, Thorin, you must listen to me.” He pulled at the long locks of hair, making the crusader let out a low hiss of pain. “I asked you so long ago, in the Cove, to not make me hurt you. Light knows I love you – or knew, at least – but if you attempt to force yourself on me again, if you do not ask for permission first, I will expose you to the same blight I used back then. And then I will not give you any cure until you beg.”

He moved his hand from Thorin’s hair, slowly trailing it down over his chest and stomach. He took them both in hand, pressing their cocks together with a tight squeeze, and Thorin almost whispered a prayer of gratitude for the plague doctor’s rough handling; he didn’t need to say that he understood, didn’t have to say a word. He thought momentarily of Dwalin’s words: _Whatever happens, we will not leave each other_.

“Make me forget,” he pleaded as he pulled Bilbo in for another kiss. “Make me forget all that happened.”

“And be left alone to remember?” Bilbo answered with a hoarse laugh, moving his hand a little faster. “Are you so cruel?”

Thorin thrust into Bilbo’s fist and closed his eyes with a low moan. Cruel indeed; he had never been a cruel man, not as far as he could recall. He had ever been what people considered righteous and just. But was Bilbo not crueller by far in wanting him to keep his memories even as they haunted him night after night?

“You would forget me,” Bilbo told him quietly, pulling him away from his thoughts. “You would forget what we went through together and why you are here with me. I would lose you, though you promised me I would not.”

“Forgive me,” Thorin gasped. “Forgive me, I did not think, I did not-“

“No, indeed you did not.” The plague doctor urged him to turn his head to expose his neck, biting down hard on the soft skin there as he did so. The sudden jolt of pain made the crusader cry out, but did nothing to lessen the pleasure he felt. “Keep your promise, and do not leave me. Cling to me like ivy if you must, if I am indeed all that you believe in, and I will try to keep the darkness as bay. We are never going back, Thorin. We will remember because we must, but we are never going back. The Light cannot save us from what we have seen, but our dreams will not break us.”

“I will not leave you,” Thorin promised, jerking his hips upwards in short thrusts as he felt himself nearing his peak. “I will stay with you. No one else could help me, no one else knows, couldn’t understand…”

And those words seemed to be precisely what Bilbo needed; with a hoarse but keening cry, he spilled over his own hand and Thorin’s stomach. Without giving himself pause, Bilbo scrambled to move further down on the bed. He took the crusader’s cock into his mouth, suckling at it hard enough to give more than an edge of pain to the pleasure. Thorin placed his hand on the back of the plague doctor’s head as though to keep him in place and thrust into his mouth. Bilbo gave a half-choked moan as he struggled not to gag. It didn’t take long before Thorin peaked and came with a groan, his back arching off the bed. As he relaxed, Bilbo was suddenly over him again; he kissed him, more gently this time, and though he had swallowed the seed the crusader could still taste it on his tongue.

The plague doctor soon made himself comfortable beside Thorin, seeming happy enough to let washing up wait until morning. The crusader held him close, wide awake still as the smaller man drifted off to sleep once more. His mind was whirling and seemed insistent on reminding him of all he had been taught in the past; old teachings were not so easily thrown away.

“If this is wrong, then let me be wrong and faulty,” he murmured to himself. “Perhaps there is no love in this, but if I must use him to feel like myself, then I will – at the very least he knows it, and I know he thinks the same.” He stared at the candle on the small bedside table, wondering if Bilbo had perhaps lit it when he came into the room. “I am his, for as long as he needs me. And he is mine, until the dark beyond claims us both.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the rather abrupt end, and for how abrupt pretty much all of my writing in this story has been. But I hope it's been enjoyable nevertheless!  
> Please do let me know if I ought to change the rating of the fic from Mature to Explicit! I've been thinking about that since I started writing, and I'm honestly uncertain of how it should be...


End file.
